


Glass: After the Storm

by daydreamtofiction



Series: Glass [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: sherlockbbc, Drama, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Love, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Post-Canon, Romance, Sequel, Sherlock - Freeform, Strong Female Characters, Suspense, sherlock/originalfemalecharacter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:16:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 74,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22884640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamtofiction/pseuds/daydreamtofiction
Summary: Sherlock knew now why they called Eurus the 'East Wind'. She was a tempest - a violent storm - and she almost took everything from him.The dust has settled after Eurus' twisted game. 221B has been rebuilt from rubble, Margaux is alive, and Sherlock Holmes is absolutely, unequivocally in love with her. They say there is always calm before a storm, but what comes after?• Sequel to 'Glass - A Sherlock Fanfiction'.• Can be read alone or as part of the 'Glass' series.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Glass [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1545352
Comments: 114
Kudos: 312





	1. Twelve Months

A year had passed as quickly as rain fell in the spring.

Spring in London was melting into summer; the daffodils had bloomed and wilted, the smog had thinned, and the bright mornings poured warm air through open windows.

Margaux pulled the curtains apart, welcoming the morning sun on her face. She felt two arms wrap around her waist, a firm body pressed against her back. She turned her head to the side as his lips met the back of her shoulder, travelling up her neck to her cheek. She leaned back against him and smiled.

"How long will you be gone?"

"Hm? What do you mean?" he muttered as his lips pressed against her temple.

"You're showing me affection first thing in the morning and you're fully dressed – bag sitting on the floor by the door." She turned around to face him, slinking her arms over his shoulders. "So, I'll ask again: how long will you be gone?"

"All day. I will do my best to return tonight."

"Where to this time?"

"Not sure. I assume Mycroft will enlighten me once I arrive."

She narrowed her eyes. There was an inkling in the pit of her stomach that told her he was lying. She was sure Sherlock had been lying for a while.

In the year they had been together, she had noticed he would disappear; unreachable by phone and without John by his side. Where he was going, she wasn't sure. But as he picked up his bag and made his way downstairs, she heard a familiar text tone echo from the staircase – a tone that sent a shiver down her spine and made her chest feel hollow.

*

John took a large gulp of coffee. He was nervous, burning his tongue in his haste. The woman across the table smiled, her deep olive skin flushing slightly. Her name was Victoria. They had studied medicine at St Bart's at the same time but never crossed paths, finally meeting over twenty years later at a mutual friend's wedding. She had sharp features, deep brown eyes and thick, perfectly styled black hair that glittered with greys when it caught the light.

A waitress placed two plates on the table.

"Lovely," said John, rubbing his hands together as he looked down at his Full English.

Victoria nibbled politely on her toast as she continued her story. "So, then my eldest son Carl came running downstairs wondering what the hell was going on–" She stopped talking as she raised her head to look at him.

He was distracted, almost angry as he stared off at something behind her.

"S-sorry, Victoria," he said, rising from his chair. "Can you just... excuse me for a second?"

He made his way towards the door, glaring at Sherlock who stood waving at him through the glass pane.

"What are you doing, Sherlock? I told you I was going on a date."

Sherlock looked at his watch with a raised eyebrow.

John huffed. "People go for breakfast together – it's a perfectly acceptable date."

"Alright..."

"Ugh, what is it? What do you need?"

"Margaux is becoming suspicious. She thinks I'm lying about where I'm going."

"You _are_ lying about where you're–"

"Never mind that, John. Just- If she comes snooping around for information, you tell her I've travelled to Brussels to aid Mycroft in some government... stuff."

" _Government stuff._ Right, okay." John nodded. He stepped back into the restaurant before pivoting on his heels and returning to Sherlock. "I don't like lying to her."

"Don't think of it as lying."

"What else can I think of it as?"

Sherlock stood quietly for a moment, staring blankly over the top of John's head. "Okay, it's lying." He finally said. "But it is necessary. She can't know."

*

Greg Lestrade was leaning back comfortably in his chair. He was reading over a witness statement while eating his lunch, being sure not to get food stains on the crisp, white paper. His office door opened suddenly. He sat up, taking his feet down from the desk.

"You could've knocked," he said.

"Sorry, did I interrupt an intimate moment between you and your sandwich?" said Margaux as she closed the door behind her. "Where's Sherlock?" she asked abruptly.

"I don't know. Should I know?"

"I don't know..."

"Well with all due respect, Marg, he's _your_ fella; if you don't know where he is, how should I?"

"Right." She nodded, reaching for the door handle. "Okay then."

"Everything alright?"

She stopped and turned around quickly. "I think he's cheating on me."

Greg's eyes grew wide. He remained silent for a moment but it didn't take long for his expression to break. He burst into laughter, throwing his head back and closing his eyes.

"Sherlock? You think _Sherlock_ is playing away?" he continued to laugh.

"Stop laughing, Greg, it's not funny."

"Okay, alright, I'm sorry." He wiped away a tear, continuing to chuckle quietly as he gestured for Margaux to sit down. "Go on, enlighten me."

She sighed. "It started just after I moved in with him. He'd disappear for a whole day here and there and I'd try to get in touch with him but I couldn't – no one had seen him, not even John knew where he was. When he'd get back, he'd be really secretive. He'd make up some vague excuse – researching for a case, doing some undercover work, stuff he thought I'd just accept as true. But what he didn't account for, was that I noticed he would be different. He'd be really affectionate, calm, agreeable. Guilty."

  
"That's just Sherlock, though. Odd behaviour, no one can read him."

  
"You know Irene Adler's still alive. He saved her from being executed."

  
"So?"

  
"So no one knows where she is. Except Sherlock. She texts him. Even has her own personal ring tone." She paused. "I'm not paranoid, Greg, I'm observant."

"But... After everything you've been through to get to where you are; he'd be an idiot."

"Yeah, well he _can_ be an idiot, can't he. He's proven that time and time again."

*

The air was still, and the warm day had cooled to a calm night. Margaux walked out of the police station and across the carpark, shifting her bag up her shoulder and taking her phone out of her pocket. As she scrolled through her phone checking for messages, she noticed a shadow ahead.

He was leaning against her car; hands in pockets, head down. He glanced up at her and smiled.

"What are you doing here?" she asked as she approached him.

"I've not long got back. Thought I'd come and meet you – accompany you home."

They climbed into the car, closing their doors and buckling their seatbelts without a word. Sherlock could tell something was wrong. But he knew why. He wondered if he should mention something, but the can of worms seemed better shut. So instead, he waited for her to speak first.

"So..." she began as she drove them through London. "How was Belgium?"

"Ah, you spoke to John?"

"Mhm. I text him earlier to see if he'd pick Vaughan up from nursery. He mentioned you were flying to Brussels."

"Oh yes, well, it was rather uneventful. But I got what I needed for Mycroft so–"

The car slowed to a stop at a traffic light. The red light glowed through the windshield onto her face as she turned to look at him. "Why did you tell John where you were going and not me?"

"He... called me as I was getting on the plane."

"Oh." She felt the inkling again, trying her best to bury it.

Greg was right, he was _Sherlock_ ; she knew him, loved him, and she wanted so desperately trust him. The light turned green. She turned her attention back to the road and drove.

"Long day?" he asked.

"Just admin. Lots of paperwork." She dropped her arms into her lap, holding the bottom of the steering wheel gently with one hand.

Sherlock reached over, weaving his fingers through hers and holding her hand as she drove.

When they arrived home, they climbed up the stairs and walked down the landing towards 221B. He opened the door and stumbled through the dark to switch on a lamp. It shone a faint, warm glow across the living room as they slipped off their jackets and threw down their bags. Margaux sat on the couch and took off her shoes with a relieved sigh.

Sherlock picked up a letter, opening it and skimming over it quickly. He walked to the fireplace, placing the letter down and pinning it to the mantle with his knife. Margaux watched him, the lines of his face illuminated by lamplight; his straight mouth, clenched jaw and heavy brow. She walked over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and laying her head on his chest.

"I love you," she said quietly.

"Good, I was starting to wonder."

She glared up at him.

He smiled softly. "I'm kidding. I love you too."

"Promise?"

"You doubt my feelings."

"Are you asking me? Or has something brought you to that conclusion?"

"You were hesitant when you put your arms around me, and you're requesting reassurance of my love for you. Am I not making my feelings clear? I'm still unsure sometimes whether I'm acting appropriately–"

"No, Sherlock, you've been... you've been wonderful. Really. I just worry sometimes. Maybe I'm not... _enough_ for you."

"Margaux. I spend my days gallivanting around London with my best friend, doing what I love and being paid for it. I crack cases and receive glory from the press and police for my work... Yet knowing that you are the last thing I see when I go to sleep, and the first thing I see when I wake up, is the better than all of that."

She smiled. "You know, for a man with a rather prickly disposition, you can be rather... smooth."

He felt her grip around him tighten, her body relax into his. He breathed an internal sigh of relief knowing that, for once, he had said the right thing.

"So, since John has been a stand-up uncle," he said. "And we have the flat to ourselves..."

"Mrs Hudson is downstairs."

He checked his watch. "It's after 9pm, Mrs Hudson's had sherry and a half and is currently asleep in front of the television."

"People aren't always so predictable."

"Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed, so loud that his voice rattled her bones.

They stood in silence for a moment, waiting. But no sound came from downstairs. She looked up at him, rolling her eyes as he had once again proven himself right.

The corner of his mouth lifted smugly. "On Friday nights, both her favourite soaps are broadcast at the same time on two different channels. She tapes them so she can watch them after she's had her dinner and washed the dishes. John took Vaughan for the night so with the place to herself, she treated herself to a sherry while she watched her soaps back to back – falling asleep half way through the second episode."

Margaux tried to stifle a smirk. He was impressive, and she couldn't help but find the confidence he had in his own deductions somewhat sexy. He was clever and he knew it. He was right and he knew it. He was in control and he knew it.

"That was the most thorough way of convincing someone to have sex with you," she said.

"Do you need to be convinced?"

"Cocky sod."

She leant up to kiss him as he pulled her closer. She smiled against his lips as his hands trailed quickly from her waist to her backside.

"Mm." She pulled away. "I've been sitting behind a desk all day in a room full of sweaty policemen. Give me five minutes?"

He nodded, watching as she disappeared towards the bathroom.

*

Mrs Hudson woke to a loud bang. She jolted forward, gripping the arm of the couch and blinking away the sleep that had formed in the corners of her eyes. She looked around the room, eyes wide as she wondered if she'd imagined the sound, or if it had been the television that was still playing as she slept. A few moments later, another bang made her jump. She stood up, realising it was coming from the front door.

She stepped out of her flat into the hall and crept forward slowly, her eyes never leaving the door. The stairs creaked beside her, she looked up to see Sherlock rushing down the steps; he was red-faced and breathing heavily. His hair was messy, his naked body draped in a bedsheet. Mrs Hudson covered her eyes.

"Ooh Sherlock," she whispered in horror.

He looked down at his attire and rolled his eyes before continuing towards the door.

Margaux appeared at the top of the stairs wearing Sherlock's dressing gown, she had wrapped it tight around her waist, holding it in place with folded arms.

"What was it?" she whispered.

"Maybe the wind lifted the knocker?" Mrs Hudson replied.

"Will you both just shush and let me check?" said Sherlock.

His hand reached slowly for the door while the other held the bedsheet in place. He opened it, just enough to let a sliver of streetlight into the hall. He peaked through the gap, furrowing his brow and standing up straight.

"What is it?" asked Margaux as she made her way downstairs.

He opened the front door wide. "Not sure," he mused, crouching down to examine something on the doorstep.

Mrs Hudson took a step forward. "They don't deliver at this time of night, surely?"

Sherlock turned around. He was holding a small brown package. "It's for you..." he said, his eyes flitting towards his girlfriend.

Margaux took the package from him, twisting her mouth and running her finger along the sealed edge.

Sherlock lay his hand on top of hers. "How about we _don't_ go opening strange packages left on doorsteps?"

*

Margaux hovered in the kitchen chewing the nail of her index finger. She watched as he sat at the kitchen table examining the package with a small device.

"I should be surprised that you just so happen to have bomb-detection equipment lying around," she said. "But I'm not."

"I've noticed people try to blow me up more than the average person." He put down the device and held up the package. "It's safe."

She took it from him and opened it with haste, tearing away the brown paper and tipping out a small velvet box.

Inside the box was a necklace. She tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. The chain was thin and old; the metal worn like antique brass. Hanging from it was a pendant.

She held it close to her face, her eyes fixed on the stone in the centre. "Is- Is this..."

Sherlock took it from her, looking at it for just a moment. "Painite."

"The stone from the museum?"

"It appears so."

"Why would somebody send me this?"

Sherlock didn't respond. Instead he picked up the remnants of the package and turned it inside out. Nothing.

"A fan of John's blog, maybe?" Margaux pondered. "But I mean... _Painite?_ That's a bit of an obscure reference, don't you think? To read about the case, source a piece of the stone, set it in a necklace and send it to... _me_?"

Sherlock paced the floor, rolling the pendant between two fingers. "It would be..." He held it up – the cloudy amber stone glittering as it caught the light. "Except, John never wrote about that case." 


	2. The Tempest

The necklace sat inside a drawer in Margaux’s nightstand, tucked away waiting for the sender’s next message. But nothing ever came. As the summer months passed by, the strange gift slowly faded to the back of everyone’s mind, and as autumn crept in, they had almost forgotten about it completely.

The cemetery was always quiet at 8am. A still, frosty fog settled close to the ground, skimming the tops of gravestones as the cold October morning lay dew across the grass and fallen leaves. Sherlock and John stood together beside Mary’s plot as the children’s giggles echoed eerily across the cemetery. Vaughan played amongst the graves as Rosie chased him on her wobbly, 1-year-old legs, her pearl blonde hair peeking out from under a woolly hat too big for her head.

Sherlock looked over as his son knelt behind a headstone to hide. “Vaughan, get up off the ground! You’ll get your uniform dirty.”

Vaughan was 4-years-old, a month into his reception year of primary school and excelling quickly. But of course, Sherlock expected nothing less.

“Come on mate,” John called to the little boy. “You know she’ll only copy you.”

Just as he finished speaking, Rosie plonked herself down in a patch of mud. John pressed his lips together, sighed and turned back to Mary’s headstone.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. “Do you want me to walk away? So you can… I don’t know, talk to her or whatever it is you do.”

“S’alright. I just wanted to stop past. I feel like I- I feel like I’ve been neglecting her.”

“You come here every week.”

“No, neglecting her… emotionally.”

Sherlock looked down at him and raised an eyebrow. “Because you’ve been breakfasting another woman?”

“I don’t know. I just feel guilty. Like I’m putting Victoria before her.” John sighed. “Also, I’ve already told you, breakfast is a perfectly acceptable date, you dick.”

Sherlock smiled, a small laugh shaking his shoulders. John crouched down, neatening the decorations around the plot before using his sleeve to buff away a smudge on the engraving.

“I just…” he bowed his head. “I feel like something might be missing with Vic. I’m wondering if there’s even a point in carrying it on.”

“Is that because something’s missing with Victoria? Or because you’re _missing_ Mary?”

John stood up. “Look, I don’t know. But I- By this point with Mary, I knew I loved her; I’d already bought an engagement ring by now. Me and Victoria–”

“Victoria and I.”

“We’re just not there. I don’t think we’re… anywhere.”

Sherlock gazed off across the cemetery, at the blend of grey and green behind the smoky fog. “No one will ever be Mary,” he finally said. “You’re not _replacing_ her. You’re simply… making room _beside_ her.”

John thought for a moment, before dropping his head and breathing out a laugh. “I can’t believe you’re making sense. Sherlock Holmes is giving _me_ love advice and emotional support. What the f–”

“Don’t swear in a place of ‘god’, John. The imaginary man might smite you with his imaginary superpowers.”

“Ah, there’s the Sherlock I know.”

Vaughan walked up to them hand in hand with Rosie. “She said she’s tired.”

“Aw well she’s only a baby,” John replied, scooping her up in his arms.

“No she’s not, she’s a toddler.”

“And there’s the _Vaughan_ I know. You’re cut from the same cloth, you two.” He looked down at him. “Ever heard that expression?”

Vaughan shook his head. “No but it sounds like it means we’re the same.”

John blinked slowly.

Sherlock checked his watch. “Right, school time. Come on.” He ushered them towards the path. “Daddy’s got gifts to wrap because he forgot to do it yesterday.”

“You _forgot?_ I texted you to remind you to do it!”

“I delete your texts, John.”

The four of them walked the winding path out of the cemetery. Rosie and John waved to Mary’s headstone as Sherlock tried to fix Vaughan’s tie.

“So, what are you doing tonight then?” John asked as they stood at the school gates.

“Dinner. In a restaurant.” Sherlock grimaced.

“Well it’s better than her last birthday. Remember? You turned up late covered in dirt, holding a shovel.”

“Yes–”

“Thought you’d do a spot of grave digging on your girlfriend’s birthday.”

“Alright, alright–”

“The way the lightning struck _just_ as you burst through the door. It was like a scene from a horror movie.”

“Okay, John, yes you’ve made your point.”

*

Margaux sat at her desk surrounded by files and folders of evidence. She picked up a crime scene photograph, looking at the graphic image so calmly it was as if she were reading a magazine.

A mug of coffee appeared beside her. She looked up at the young man who had placed it there and smiled.

“Thanks… erm…”

“William.”

“William! Sorry. Thank you.”

“No problem.”

He was handsome; strong-jawed with full lips and striking hazel eyes. He was tall and slim, his chin-length hair tucked behind his ears in an attempt to look professional. He hovered beside her desk playing with the access card that hung on a lanyard around his neck.

“Pull up a chair,” said Margaux. “Sorry about the chaos, just put your mug on top of it all, they’re just photocopies.”

He nodded and sat down beside her.

She noticed him wince slightly at the sight of the crime scene photos, averting his gaze and taking a sip of coffee.

“Still not desensitised?”

“No,” he laughed. “I don’t think I ever will be.” 

“You’ll get there. It’s never easy, but you eventually learn to look at it all without feeling sick.”

She thought back to when she first became a forensic investigator; fresh off her PhD and convinced it would be glamourous and exciting, just like the crime dramas she watched on television. But it wasn’t long before reality set in – a realisation she was now recognising on William’s face too.

She tried to change the subject. “When did you graduate?”

“January.”

“Forensic Psychology?”

He nodded, swallowing his mouthful of coffee. “I wanted to be a CSI straight away, but for some reason I decided to train as a police officer instead. Five months of chasing shoplifters and arresting drunk people for pissing in public – I decided it was time to finally get that CSI certification.”

Margaux laughed.

Her phone buzzed on the table. She picked it up and let out a groan as she read the text.

_‘I won’t be there when you get home – A case came up. Will meet you at the restaurant instead. S’_

“Everything okay?” asked William.

“Hm? Oh, yeah don’t worry it’s nothing to do with this. Just my boyfriend being his usual difficult self; apparently, he can’t help but solve crimes, even on my birthday.”

“Oh, is he also on the force?”

“Kind of. Let’s just say… he’s an asset and a curse. Both here and at home.”

William laughed.

“Anyway,” she sighed and returned to the work on her desk. “I need to prep for this expert witness testimony. Do you want to shadow me?”

“Really? You wouldn’t mind?”

“How else are you going to learn?”

*

Margaux stood under the shelter around the back of the police station as rain drizzled and pattered against the clear Perspex roof. She took a drag of her cigarette and leaned against the wall as she watched the sky growing darker and gloomier with every second that passed.

The heavy door opened. William stepped outside and walked towards her.

“Sorry,” he said as he rushed for the cover of the shelter. “I was eavesdropping on the guys working on that bank robbery. It’s mad; they’ve had to scrap their whole investigation and start again. All because some random guy called and told them they’re all stupid.” He laughed. “He had such a weird name. I didn’t even realise they were talking about a person at first. Sher-lock.” He laughed again before noticing Margaux’s straight face. “That’s the difficult boyfriend, isn’t it…”

“Yep.”

“I- I’m sorry, I…”

“It’s okay.” She smiled. “You’ll probably meet him at some point. Then you’ll understand why he drives them all mad.”

She went back inside where a group of officers stood around ranting about Sherlock. She tugged on Greg’s arm and pulled him aside.

“I’ll write everything up tomorrow. Right now, I think I want to go.”

“Not slacking because it’s your birthday, are you?” he teased.

“Not at all. But now that you mention it, I do have a man waiting for me in a restaurant. And he’s proven to not be the most patient.”

Greg laughed. “Go on. Happy Birthday, by the way.”

*

Sherlock’s back was naturally straight. His posture was always perfect, even when he wasn’t thinking about it. A candle sat in the centre of the table. He brushed his fingers quickly across the open flame, watching it skip and flicker for a moment. He glanced up as Margaux walked into the restaurant, watching as she weaved towards him.

“Hello,” she sang as she reached their table.

She took off her coat and leaned down to kiss him, running her thumb across his lips to wipe away the lipstick she left behind. She looked beautiful, he thought, as she sat down and flicked her hair off her shoulders.

“Happy Birthday,” he said.

“Thank you, love.”

She picked up the glass of gin that had been waiting for her, holding it up to him like she was making a toast.

She took a generous gulp. “Ah, I’ve been looking forward to that all day.”

“Just the gin?”

“Mm, maybe you too.” She took a moment to look at him as he sat across the table in his crisp shirt, the top button undone exposing the base of his throat. “You look delicious,” she said.

“ _Delicious?_ ” he laughed.

She laughed too. “I don’t know. You just look… you’re very handsome.”

The corners of his mouth curled upwards, so subtle that no one else would have detected it. “I wore your favourite shirt.”

“I noticed.” She smiled. “I wore your favourite dress.”

Sherlock’s eyes wandered for a moment. He cleared his throat and brought his gaze back up to her face. “Open your present.”

She picked up the gift sitting next to her on the table and tore away the paper that had been meticulously wrapped around it. Her face brightened when she looked inside the box, peering up at him with an excited grin.

“Sherlock!” She pulled out two tickets for a west end play – The Woman in Black – her favourite book. “You remembered.”

“Of course I remembered. It’s not for a few months–”

“I can’t believe you’re willing to come and watch a play with me.”

“Well… There’s no rule that states you have to take _me_.”

“I’m taking you.”

He rolled his eyes. “Alright.”

They talked as they ate dinner, their conversation so relaxed it was hard to believe she was sitting opposite Sherlock Holmes. He was joking and flirting, charisma pouring from the smile lines in his face. Margaux loved it – this was the Sherlock that no one else got to see. He was hers completely.

The waiter left dessert menus on the edge of the table. Margaux smiled proudly when Sherlock thanked him. Every day she saw a fleck of improvement – whether it was a thoughtful gift, or a thank you to a waiter – it was all progress.

“Shan’t be a minute,” he said as he stood up, making his way towards the restroom on the other side of the restaurant.

Margaux watched him walk away, catching herself eyeing him up and down. She giggled to herself and took a sip of her drink, picking up the tickets and reading over them excitedly. She reached into her bag and took out her lipstick – every time she held the heavy gold tube in her hand, she thought of Mary. She ran it across her lips, checking in the reflection of her phone to make sure it looked okay. Even after a year and a half of being Sherlock’s girlfriend, she still got nervous.

A noise flashed from across the table. She narrowed her eyes and looked over at Sherlock’s coat hanging over the back of his chair. Did she imagine it? Another noise sent her heart plummeting to her stomach. It was a text tone. A tone that belonged to one person.

Sherlock grimaced as he opened the bathroom door, wondering how many germ-ridden hands had touched the handle before him. Then he remembered he had spent many nights on the dirty floor of a drug den, and suddenly, the restaurant bathroom didn’t seem so bad.

He sauntered back to their table, smiling as he sat down.

“So, are you getting a dessert?” he asked before glancing up at her. “Margaux… What’s wrong?”

“You got a text while you were gone. Don’t worry, I didn’t look. Wouldn’t want to intrude on your intimate conversations.”

“Hm?”

“I didn’t want to believe it.”

“I fear I am entirely missing your point.”

“Irene Adler.” She took a deep breath. “The Woman. That’s what you called her, wasn’t it? She wasn’t just a woman. She was _the_ woman.”

He furrowed his brow and reached into his coat pocket, taking out his phone and reading the texts.

“I hear them,” she continued. “Every time she sends you a message my skin crawls.”

“Yes, well she does have a habit of pestering.”

She scoffed. “Pestering.”

He regarded her serious expression. “Margaux, I don’t answer her messages. I never have.” He leaned forward as he spoke. “She’s a fugitive. I saved her from execution. Having record of her texts means I have a way of tracing her should I ever need to.”

She stared at him, her hands resting in her lap. “I don’t believe you.”

“Wh–? Hold on, what are you insinuating?”

“You don’t think I’ve noticed you’ve been disappearing? Giving me bogus excuses about where you’re going–” 

“Margaux. Listen to yourself. It’s _me_. Do you really think I have the capacity for an affair?”

“Well if you’re not having an affair then where have you been going?”

“I…” He stopped. The tension was visible in his face; sharpening every bone and darkening his eyes.

“Right.” She nodded, her eyes beginning to water. “You know I really thought– I thought you really, honestly loved me.” She pushed her seat back and began to stand up.

“I do!”

“Then tell me the truth, Sherlock.”

He closed his eyes in frustration, almost growling as he blew out air between pursed lips. “I am not meeting with Irene Adler.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“I… Margaux.”

She turned around to walk away. He grabbed her by the hem of her dress and pulled her back.

“Sit down,” he demanded through gritted teeth.

She glanced around at the busy restaurant, at all the people who were completely oblivious to their argument. She sat down, swallowing the lump forming in her throat.

“I have been…” he struggled through each word, forcing them out like it hurt. “I have been visiting my sister.”

She stopped breathing.

He rubbed his face. He had hoped this moment would never come. “Mycroft has been facilitating my visits to Sherrinford for over a year now.”

She remained still. Her eyes glazed over. She couldn’t speak; even her thoughts were incoherent. 

They sat in silence as the candle flickered on the table between them. Finally, it was Sherlock who spoke first. 

“Maybe we should just get the bill.” 

*

They decided to walk. At least for a while. Sherlock and Margaux often had spats; disagreements where they would compete to wind each other up, settling it with a kiss and a laugh as quickly as it had begun. But they never fought. He had never raised his voice in anger, and she had never threatened to walk away. Until now.

Neither knew what to say as they walked beside each other. He noticed she was struggling in her heels and held out his arm. She linked it, holding onto him tightly as they turned onto a quiet street.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked quietly.

“Because I didn’t understand why I was doing it, so how could I expect _you_ to?” He stopped walking. “I know what she did; I think about what she did every time I look at her. And I want to hate her.” He put his hand on her neck, running his thumb across her scar. “She did this to you – she almost took you away from me and she wouldn’t have even cared. I want to hate her for that. But she’s my sister. And she’s sick.”

Margaux could feel tears forming. She swallowed hard, forcing them back down as Sherlock continued to speak.

“The night I found her in that room, I saw a glimpse of my sister trapped beneath the poison and I promised her I would bring her home.” He sighed. “The poison did all of those things. But my sister sits alone behind glass, wondering why I didn’t keep my promise.”

She continued to walk, pulling her coat closed and folding her arms across her chest. “It kills me that you didn’t trust me to be understanding of that.”

“It wasn’t that I didn’t think you would understand. It’s that I knew you _would_ understand. That was the problem. I couldn’t watch you bury your own feelings to support _me_.”

“I get it,” she said. “I get why you visit her. And I know it’s not what you want to hear, but I _would_ have supported you.”

“I know.”

She slipped her arm through his again, pulling herself closer to him as they walked together.

“What do you do? When you’re there… Has she improved at all? Has she explained… why?”

He shook his head. “I just sit with her. Play the violin for her. She’s catatonic most of the time – sometimes she doesn’t even turn around to look at me. But sometimes… sometimes she plays too.”

“I’m sorry.”

They took a shortcut through a park. It was dark and quiet, almost completely empty in the drizzly autumn night. Sherlock stopped them, turning her around to face him.

“Margaux, I would _never_ cheat on you.” He grabbed her face. “Though I know the truth isn’t any less hurtful, I just can’t bear the thought of you believing I could feel this way for someone else.”

She rose up on her tip toes and rested her forehead against his. “I know that. I do. I just…” she let out a small laugh. “God, look what you’ve done to me. I love you so much I’ve turned into a crazy lady.”

“Not completely crazy; I wasn’t exactly innocent. But _that_. I would _never_ do that. Margaux, you are… the only…”

She cupped his cheek and smiled, kissing him gently as the rain grew heavier.


	3. Scarlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With a super busy weekend ahead of me and a likely delay before I can write and post chapter four, I've decided to publish chapter three of After the Storm a little bit early (also because I couldn't bring myself to wait). Hope you enjoy!

John stepped out of the quaint terraced house. He closed the front door behind him and exhaled slowly. He glanced across the front garden to the discarded Christmas tree lying by the bins; at the flecks of tinsel still caught in the brown, shrivelling branches. He pushed his hands into his pockets and began to walk down the street, his body tensing in the bitter January wind.

A black cab turned the corner at the top of the road, slowing as it approached him.

“John!”

He turned to see Sherlock peering out of the back window, ushering him over.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked as he climbed in the taxi.

“I made a deduction,” said Sherlock as he typed on his phone. “Did she take it well?”

John sighed. “Break-ups are never easy. She took it better than most.” He looked out of the window as they drove into the city. “Where are we going, by the way?”

“Lestrade called. Judging by the tone of his voice, I’m either in trouble, or desperately needed.”

“So, what am I? Moral support?”

“Something like that.”

*

They made their way through a horde of vans and police cars, pushing past groups of uniformed officers and crime scene investigators in their white, papery overalls. Greg Lestrade stood on the doorstep of an unkempt house. Sherlock glanced around it quickly, taking mental photographs and storing them away: the garden path was broken and uneven, the brown flagstones discoloured by algae and weeds growing between the cracks. The front of the house was pebble-dashed – Sherlock grimaced – there were chunks that had fallen off to reveal the mouldy concrete beneath. The murky windows had grown cloudy and the railing on the doorstep was loose and rusty.

“I’m guessing it’s unoccupied,” said John as they approached the front door.

“We got in touch with the landlord. He lives abroad, said the last tenants did a runner and he couldn’t be bothered re-letting it.” Greg opened the door with his gloved hand and let them inside. “So, we’ve got a white female, no ID, not sure of age but she looks to be in her thirties,” Greg began as they climbed the stairs.

“Murdered?” asked John.

“Probably? There’s no obvious injuries, no missing person’s reports. Forensics are doing an evidence sweep now but it doesn’t look like they’re gonna find anything.”

“But you’ve called me,” said Sherlock. “So clearly there’s more to it. Or are you simply commissioning me to do _your_ job now?”

Greg stopped at the top of the stairs and turned to him. “Take a look for yourself.” He gestured to the door at the end of the landing where a forensics team filed out of the room. “Go on,” he said. “Go and see what you make of it.”

Sherlock walked down the landing and stepped into the room. He felt a spur in his mind; like the snipping of a lighter, electricity pouring from his brain to the tips of his fingers. On the floor in the middle of the room lay a woman. She was dead, face down on the bare floorboards with her hair covering her face.

“What the…” said John as he walked in beside him.

Her shoes were pink, her coat was pink, even her fingernails were the same shade of vibrant cerise.

“Deja vu?” asked Greg. “Yeah. Now you know why I called you.”

Sherlock’s face was blank. Yet just behind the blank expression was a layer of utter confusion, and behind that, a spark of excitement. He walked over to the body and crouched beside it, pulling on a latex glove and checking for clues.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Margaux stood with her arms folded in the doorway.

She stepped into the room surveying their surroundings, her hands in the pockets of her long brown coat and her hair pulled into a low ponytail.

“What are you doing here?” asked Sherlock.

“Greg called me.”

“It’s clearly some sort of copycat murder so we need a BA,” said Greg. “To be fair, I did ask Roberts first, but the last time he worked on a case with you, you made him cry.”

John smirked.

Sherlock watched as a young man joined them, zipping up his overalls and wandering nervously to Margaux’s side.

“Who’s this?”

“This is Will,” she replied. “I’m mentoring him through his CSI training.”

“Mr Holmes, I’ve heard a lot about you,” said William. He reached for a handshake before glancing down at the body and recoiling.

Sherlock stood up slowly. He was used to looking down on people – literally. But as he rose to his full height, he found he was still looking up. William was tall, yet his towering stature did nothing for the nerves that poured out of him. The young man smiled awkwardly and returned to Margaux’s side, like a child scurrying for safety behind its mother.

“So, what do you think?” asked Greg.

“Well–”

“It’s–”

Sherlock and Margaux looked at each other.

She laughed slightly and dropped her head. “Go on.”

“It’s obviously a copycat,” he continued. “Someone who has studied the case closely; John’s blog _and_ most likely police records too. The coat is wet under the collar, much like the first case. But not because the woman was caught in the rain.”

“How do you know?” asked John.

“The water was placed there after she died, and it’s not rainwater – of course a sample can be taken to confirm that – but I’m almost certain it’s bottled water. Also, the umbrella in her pocket is new, never used. She’s wearing a wedding ring but she’s not married.”

“How do y–”

“There’s no dent in her finger from prolonged wear, no tan line or change in skin texture. Also, it’s fake; costume jewellery.” He pointed to the victim’s hand. “The nails were painted post-mortem too, I can still smell the fumes from the polish and it wasn’t totally dry when it was scratched off, hence the pink smudges and lack of chipping.”

“Dr Cave,” said William as he kicked something gently with the tip of his shoe.

She looked down and squinted. “Can someone with gloves come and have a look at this?”

Sherlock hurried over and crouched at William’s feet. He picked up a large button, still attached to a piece of thread.

William shuffled nervously. “It might not be anything but–”

“Rule one: be quiet when I’m working.”

Margaux rolled her eyes.

“Is that a button?” asked John.

Sherlock held it up between his finger and thumb. “Most likely fallen off the victim’s clothing while the murderer undressed her.” He looked at the body draped head-to-toe in pink. “She was dressed like this after she was killed. It’s all staged.”

“So, someone has copied ‘A Study in Pink’,” Margaux mused. “But not enough to match every detail. Which means this wasn’t done out of admiration for the killer. It was done to get _your_ attention.”

*

Molly fixed the victim’s arms gently by her sides and slid the large metal drawer closed. She was gentle and considerate, providing bodies with respect even in death. Sherlock and John stepped into the morgue. She glanced up at them as she stuck a label on the cabinet door.

She sighed, immediately sliding the drawer open again.

“So, was she poisoned?” asked John as they stood around the body.

Molly nodded. “She died from–”

“Cyanide.” Sherlock interrupted. “Can you not smell it? Bitter almonds.”

“No, I can’t,” said John.

“There were remnants of undissolved pill casing in her stomach,” Molly continued. “She ingested it.”

“What about identification?”

“I just sent the DNA off.” Molly looked down at the body. “This is really similar to ‘A Study in Pink’.”

“Must you all read his blog?”

“Well they’re really entertaining, and I like when I make an appearance. It makes me feel like a character in a crime novel.”

John grinned. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It’s the same though, isn’t it,” she said.

“It’s the same,” he replied. “But entirely not the same, all at once.”

*

It had been a long day. So long, they were almost relieved to see night fall over Baker Street. The fire was crackling, the small television playing softly in the living room. Margaux stood in front of the bathroom mirror. She pulled her hair free from its ponytail and massaged her fingers into her scalp. Her hair fell in waves over her chest. She scooped it to one side and sighed.

“Ugh I need a haircut.” 

Sherlock appeared behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. He looked at her in the mirror and made a hum deep in his throat. 

“I like it long. Reminds me of when we first met.”

She laughed. “Oh, you mean back when you didn’t even know my name?” 

“In fairness, once I learned your name I never forgot it.” 

“Ah, is this where you lie and say you always knew I was the one, even back then?” 

He smiled and lay a kiss on her shoulder. “Who said you were ‘the one’?”

She batted his arm and turned to face him. He pushed her gently against the sink and kissed her. She held onto his upper arms, tightening her grip as the air between them turned hot. His hands were placed firmly on the sink either side of her as he leaned in, pressing himself against her, his lips never leaving hers.

“Ew.”

They broke away. Margaux glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder. 

“What do you mean ‘ew’?” she asked.

Vaughan stood in the doorway in his pyjamas, a teddy in one arm. “You were kissing. That’s disgusting.” 

“And you’re not in bed,” Sherlock replied. 

“You said you’d bring me a drink. That was ages ago.”

Margaux giggled. “I’ll get it for you, come on.” 

Vaughan disappeared down the hall. 

Margaux stepped aside. “Maybe later,” she said quietly, squeezing his arm on her way out of the bathroom. 

“Maybe?” He turned around, but she was already gone.

…

Sherlock lay on the couch with his laptop across his thighs. He had changed into a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms, his dressing gown hanging open. Margaux strolled into the living room, glancing over his shoulder at the glowing computer screen.

“You’re reading John’s blog?” she asked.

“Why not? The rest of you do.”

She leaned in closer, noticing the title: ‘A Study in Pink’.

“It’s a weird one, isn’t it,” she said as she sat on the arm of the couch above his head. “There’s got to be more to it – a reason. I mean, no one just _decides_ to copy a murder, and with such detail…”

“Of course there’s a reason. I just don’t know what it is yet.”

She ran her fingers through his hair. “Why don’t you come to bed? Sleep on it, take another look tomorrow with fresh eyes.”

“There’s nothing to look at.” He sighed, closing the laptop and pulling his knees up. “I solved the first case because the killer made a mistake – he dumped the victim’s suitcase. This one is all staged; there’s no suitcase, no phone, no password scratched into the floor. It’s almost like it’s all been done for show. Style over substance.”

“It’s been done for attention. The best thing you can do is ignore it, don’t engage.”

He threw his head back onto her lap, his glistening blue eyes staring up at her. “When have I ever been able to ignore anything?”

She sighed. “Come to bed. Come on, you’ve stayed up every night this week working on cases, just take a night off.”

He stayed quiet. 

She smiled and climbed off the couch, making her way into the kitchen. “Goodnight. Don’t be long,” she called out.

“I love you,” he replied.

*

The next few days were quiet. Without knowing the identity of the woman in pink, there was little that anyone could do. Sherlock returned to focusing on other cases, John arriving at the flat every morning to help, and Margaux continued training her mentee by trying to ease his queasy disposition. 

She stood at the school door, watching all the children run out into the arms of their parents. She glanced through the window where she saw Vaughan sat at a table, his head down as he scribbled on a piece of paper. The teacher stepped out and ushered her inside.

“Oh no.” She sighed. 

She sat down on one of the small chairs and clasped her hands together on the table as the teacher sat opposite. 

“So,” the teacher began with a smile. “We just wanted to talk to you about some concerns we have.”

Margaux glared down at Vaughan. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

“Vaughan is… very clever. Sometimes too clever.” The teacher laughed slightly.

“But…”

“We’re always thrilled when we get such a gifted child. But, we’ve found that he can be a bit difficult.”

“He’s misbehaving?”

“Not exactly. Well yes, actually, he is. He’s um, he likes to correct us. At first, we found it quite endearing, but it’s starting to disrupt the other children. Also, it’s clear to us that the speed in which we’re teaching the children is too slow for him; he gets bored and restless, which I understand. But his behaviour when he’s bored is becoming quite hard for us to handle.”

“Vaughan, what have you been doing?” asked Margaux.

“Just stuff.” He shrugged.

“Not _just stuff_ ,” the teacher continued. “He broke into my desk – my _locked_ desk. He swapped the labels on the children’s coat hangers. He lay a child on the floor and drew chalk around her body on the playground. And just today, we had to conduct a school-wide search because he disappeared from the classroom during story time.”

Margaux shook her head. “I’m so sorry. I can assure you he’s very well-behaved at home. Perhaps more mentally stimulating activities would keep him busy?”

“Well it's not just that. He’s been showing quite a fascination for… _dark_ topics.” The teacher took out a stack of drawings, pushing them across the table.

Margaux sifted through them, rolling her eyes as she glanced over her son’s morbid paintings. “I understand this seems rather disturbing,” she said. “But really it’s nothing. I’m a behavioural analyst for the police and his father is–”

“Sherlock Holmes. Yes, I’m familiar with him. But, Dr Cave… your son is four. He shouldn’t be involved in anything–”

“He’s not.” She almost scoffed, growing agitated by the teacher’s condescendingly soft tone. “What do you think we’re doing? Giving him crime scene photos instead of storybooks?”

“I’m not suggesting that at all. But clearly he’s been exposed to things beyond his age; he’s very clever, perhaps he overhears you talking.”

Vaughan huffed and put his pencil down. “I’m going to be a detective,” he said assertively. “I’m learning from my daddy how to catch naughty people.”

Margaux closed her eyes slowly. She was going to kill him. No, she was going to kill Sherlock.

*

John ran up the stairs, taking two at a time until he reached the landing.

“Sherlock?” he called out breathlessly. “Sherlock, I got your text, I came as fast as I could.”

He walked into the living room to see him sitting in his armchair. It was a familiar sight; one leg crossed over the other, palms together, fingers touching his lips.

“What’s happened? Your text said you needed me urgently…”

Sherlock didn’t speak. He sat still, staring at the armchair opposite him with a burning intensity, so serious John was sure he hadn’t blinked in minutes.

“Sherlock…” he walked over to him. “Sherlock, wh…”

He followed his gaze to the other chair, his mouth suddenly feeling dry, his stomach turning over like a cold ocean wave.

On the chair sat a small box. The lid was open, revealing a sparkling diamond ring wedged inside. John knew now why Sherlock wasn’t speaking.

He looked back at his friend, his mouth agape. “You’re… you’re going to...”

“I need your help,” Sherlock said quietly. “You’ve done this before, I haven’t. I need to know how.”

“You’re–”

“Close your mouth, John.”

John’s jaw snapped shut. He picked up the box and sat down. He looked closely at the ring, as if checking it was real, checking it was all real and he wasn’t dreaming. He slipped it out and held it up in front of his face as Sherlock spoke.

“1.5 carat princess cut diamond set in white gold. I have no idea what any of that means, my mother and Mycroft helped me choose it.”

“Did Mycroft help you pay for it as well? Jesus.”

“I have my own funds, thank you, John. Also, I once helped the jeweller after a diamond heist. He gave me a discount.”

“It’s beautiful, Sherlock, really.” He put it back in the box. “I thought you didn’t believe in marriage? What was it you said? _It’s the institutionalisation of monogamy._ ”

“Yes, well it seems like the appropriate step; we’ve been together for almost two years and I’m certain we’ll remain together until one of us dies.”

“Lovely. Maybe leave that part out when you ask her to marry you.”

“It would provide more security for us as a family, it would make my mother exceedingly happy. Oh, and I love her.”

John grinned. “You’re getting married.”

“I believe she first has to accept.”

“Yeah but… _you._ You’re proposing. I don’t even think I can imagine you down on one knee.”

“Which is why I need your help. I said I was just going to do it here but my mother almost slapped me.”

John leaned forward. “Okay, well… I took Mary to dinner–”

Sherlock shook his head. “Mm, no, Margaux would hate that.”

“Right. Well you could go somewhere that means something to you; the place you first kissed–”

“Our first kiss was on the kitchen table.”

“Maybe not then. What about the place you asked her to be your girlfriend?”

“Also happened in the kitchen.”

“For god’s sake.”

“I think I know _where_ I’m going to do it. I need help with the ‘how’.”

“Okay well… here,” he handed the box to Sherlock. “Propose to me.”

He grimaced. “Absolutely not.”

“Do you want my help or not?”

They glared at each other for a moment, before Sherlock finally gave in and stood up.

“Get down on one knee then,” said John.

He rolled his eyes and reluctantly lowered himself to the ground. “Now what?”

“Propose to me.”

He paused. “John…” he began, taking a deep breath to quell his annoyance. “Will you marry me?”

“That was alright. But I didn’t feel like you really meant it.”

“Oh, for god’s sake.” He stood up and stuffed the box in his trouser pocket.

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” John giggled. “Sit down, we’ll think of something.”

Sherlock sat down, gripping the arms of his chair and waiting anxiously for him to speak. 

He had never expected that this was something he would have to do. In fact, it was something he was sure he never wanted to do. He had never been interested in marriage, even the thought made him feel like he was suffocating. But somehow, he was sitting opposite his friend, hanging on his every word. 


	4. Facets

Sherlock sat his son on a chair in the kitchen and tucked him into the table. “Then when I say: ‘show her’ you will hand her the dish, okay?”

Vaughan pulled the microscope towards himself with an excited grin. “Yep.”

“Are you absolutely certain?” he crouched down, bringing him level with his eyes. “you hand her the dish when I say _what?_ ”

Vaughan rolled his eyes. “When you say: ‘show her’. It’s easy.”

Sherlock nodded and stood up, exhaling slowly. He stuffed the ring box up his sleeve, practicing letting it drop into his hand and opening it in one fluid movement. He took a marker pen from the drawer and held up a Petri dish, carefully writing ‘will you marry my dad?’ On the bottom. 

“What does that say?” Asked Vaughan as he picked it up and began to sound out the letters. 

“Nothing it’s a surprise,” he replied, taking it away from him and putting on the table. 

A bustling sound came from the living room. The unmistakeable sound of Margaux getting home from work. Every day she would do the same things in the same order: coat off, bag on the couch, sit down, shoes off. 

He put the goggles on Vaughan’s face – which almost immediately slipped down his small button nose – and sat him in front of the microscope. They waited for just a moment before Margaux appeared in the archway of the kitchen. 

“Hello,” she began. “What are you two doing?” 

“Blood samples,” said Vaughan, exactly how they had rehearsed. 

She glanced across to Sherlock and frowned. “Love, I told you no more of this.” 

“No more what?”

“This...” she gestured to the table. “Blood samples, dangerous chemicals, taking him along on cases. It’s rubbing off on him.”

“Well I know that but...”

“He has a bedroom full of toys, shelves of books, yet you’re in here showing him human blood.” She sighed. “His teacher said–”

“I know what his teacher said,” he interrupted, trying desperately to keep his plan on track. “I just wanted to show you–”

“Look, I realise I haven’t been perfect either but I’m trying my best here; I’m watching what I say, I’ve stopped bringing work home, I need to know you’re trying too.”

“I am, Margaux, I am, just… come and sit down a minute.”

She remained standing and folded her arms. “Sherlock, I love the relationship you two have. But you should be able to transfer it other things – age appropriate things.”

Sherlock sighed. He slid the ring box down his sleeve and pushed it back into his pocket; it clearly wasn’t the time, and this clearly wasn’t the way to do it.

Vaughan let out a grumble and looked up at his mother. “Mummy, I’m going to be a detective–”

“Yes, darling, I know you are. But right now, you’re not a detective, you’re four.”

He threw his goggles onto the table, jumped down from his chair and stormed past her. Margaux turned around, listening as he stomped up the stairs to his room. Sherlock picked up the petri dish and wiped away the message, putting it in the sink before she turned back around.

She looked at him sympathetically. “I haven’t even been home five minutes and I’m already his biggest enemy.”

“He’s stubborn,” said Sherlock as he sat down. “I think… Maybe… he might get that from me?”

“Maybe.” She laughed before sitting next to him. “I’m sorry I ruined your fun. It’s just… not even a week ago, I sat in that classroom and got made to feel like the worst mother in the world.”

“I know.” He reached over and squeezed her thigh gently.

Margaux smiled. She felt guilty; she had entered the flat like a tornado, disrupting the calm and spoiling their evening.

She looked at the apparatus laid out on the table. “What was it you wanted to show me?”

“Hm? Eh, nothing.”

He slid his hand into his pocket, grasping the box in his fist. Attempt one had failed. He wondered how many more there would be.

*

Margaux woke to her phone ringing in her pocket. She sat up, realising she had fallen asleep next to Vaughan while putting him to bed. He remained asleep, rolling over and kicking his legs out from under the covers as she took out her phone and answered it quietly.

“Hello?”

“Did I wake you?”

She rubbed her eyes and brushed her hair out of her face. “No… No, what’s up? Where are you?”

“Mycroft’s. Well, I was, but I just left.”

“What were you doing there? It’s almost midnight.”

“I had to meet with him to discuss something,” Sherlock replied. “It’s raining, can you come and get me?”

She climbed out of bed and glanced out of the window, at the rain pelting the ground like marbles.

He continued. “I’d get a cab but–”

“No, don’t be silly. Of course I’ll come and get you. Just give me twenty minutes.”

She went into their bedroom, flicked on the lamp and slid open a drawer. Over her turtleneck top, she pulled on a jumper, and over that she threw on a large checked shirt. She picked up her waterproof jacket and a pair of lace-up boots and made her way downstairs.

Mrs Hudson answered the door cautiously, relaxing when she saw Margaux on the other side. Her brow came together when she watched her crouch down to tie her laces.

“You’re going out _now_?”

“Sherlock called, he needs me to pick him up from Mycroft’s. Vaughan’s in bed so would you mind sitting upstairs while I’m gone? We shouldn’t be long.”

Mrs Hudson gave a kind smile. “Honestly, I don’t know what you two would do without me. I’m like a live-in babysitter, might start charging for my services.”

Margaux laughed. “And I would happily pay because you’re brilliant.”

“Go on, dear. I’ll go up in a second.”

“Thank you.”

She stepped outside and shut the door behind her, pulling up her hood before running down the street towards her car. When she got inside, she took a moment to catch her breath, watching as the rain thrashed against the windshield creating a deafening white noise. She turned her key in the ignition, cranked up the dial on the heating and switched on her music, flicking through songs as she began to drive.

…

When she pulled up outside Mycroft’s home, she saw Sherlock standing outside. He had pulled up the collar of his coat, but it hadn’t done much to stop the rain from soaking his hair, flattening it to his head and dripping water down his face. He climbed in and leaned back against the headrest.

“He could’ve let you wait inside,” she laughed as she looked him up and down.

“We got into an argument and I stormed out. It would’ve ruined the drama if I asked to come back in.”

“Honestly, you two.”

She pulled away slowly. The windshield wipers swinging from side to side like a metronome.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t mind. Probably wouldn’t do it for anyone else, but since it’s you…” she smiled.

They drove for a while in comfortable silence through the unusually deserted London roads. Sherlock rested his head on the window, watching the streams of rain catching the light as Margaux hummed softly to the music playing from the radio.

“I apologise,” he said, his forehead pressed against the glass.

“What for?”

“For earlier with Vaughan. It was a stupid idea.”

“It wasn’t stupid. It’s just… He’s like a sponge, I suppose we have to be more careful about what he’s absorbing.” She laughed to herself. “Sometimes I think we should just drop the ‘Cave’ from his name; he’s almost completely yours.”

Sherlock turned to look at her. “He’s too nice to just be mine.”

She rubbed his arm appreciatively before returning her hand to the gear stick.

“Also, don’t let his teacher get to you; you’re a good mother,” he added.

He had never said that before. She was sure he’d thought it, but hearing it was a different feeling entirely. She almost felt like she could cry, shaking away the feeling with a smile.

He went quiet after that. She glanced at him a few times in the wing mirror, noticing the lines in his forehead as he thought hard about something. There were a few moments when she almost asked him what he was thinking about, each time changing her mind and leaving him to brood.

He lifted his head suddenly, peering out at the road in front of them. “Turn left there.”

“Hm? Why?”

“Here, turn here.”

She flicked on her indicator and turned left, following the road until he gave her another direction. Before she knew it, he had led them in the opposite direction from home.

“Are you taking me on a case?” she asked.

“Just go there.”

She shook her head. “That takes you to the museum carpark.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Why do you need to go there? It’s after midnight.”

“Will you trust me?”

“You’re roping me into something dodgy. I just know it.”

They pulled up in the empty carpark, climbing out of the car and rushing through the rain to the museum.

“Are you soliciting me into illegal activity?” asked Margaux.

Sherlock laughed. “No.” He paused. “You’re doing it for free so it’s not solicitation.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m joking, no, just come on.”

She followed him around the building to a large set of glass double doors.

“Any normal woman would tell her boyfriend to pack it in and leave. But for some reason, I’m still here.”

Sherlock shook the handles – locked. He cupped the sides of his eyes and pressed his face against the glass. A torch light shone from inside. It turned swiftly, pointing in their direction and approaching them.

Finally, a night-watchman unlocked the doors and opened them, his keys jingling in his hand. He was large and bubbly, with a round, bald head hidden under his security hat.

“Hello, Sherlock! How are ya?” he asked.

“A little… chilly.” He gestured to the weather.

“Oh of course, of course, come in.”

“Thanks Kev.”

They stepped inside, shaking off the cold rain that had clung to their clothes.

“Oh and Sherlock,” said Kev as he locked up behind them. “Don’t touch nothing.”

Sherlock winked at him before strolling away with Margaux by his side.

“Does everyone in London owe you a favour?” she asked.

“I find favours a much more effective currency.”

…

They walked around the museum together. The lights were off, the exhibitions quiet and still. There was something eerie about being the only people in such a large, echoing building.

“So, I take it you’re looking for something?” asked Margaux.

“Nope. Just felt like a walk around. Without the crowds.”

She looked up at him and giggled. “You know when I was younger I’d have loved this. I used to come here all the time.”

“What for?”

She shrugged. “It’s free, it’s warm, they have quiet nooks where you can sit and read.”

“It’s a place to hide from emotionally abusive mothers.”

“That too.”

They held hands as they walked through the displays, offering facts to one another and using their phones to shine light on the descriptions. Eventually, they found themselves in a large room with high ceilings and a marble floor.

“This was the room where they had the ball,” said Margaux as she looked around in awe. “I wonder if you can still get out onto the balcony upstairs.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised for just a moment. It was almost like he could feel the lightbulb hovering above his head. “Why don’t we go and see?”

She nodded and took his hand again, allowing him to lead the way.

…

He used his elbow in a smooth, forceful manoeuvre to pop the doors open. A siren sounded for a second, stopping suddenly like the bleeping of keys silencing a car alarm. 

“Good old Kev,” said Sherlock as he stepped aside to let her walk out onto the balcony. 

“He told you not to touch anything,” she chuckled. 

“He knows better than to assume I’ll listen.”

It was still raining. Margaux flipped up her hood and leaned against the railing as she looked out across the London skyline. Sherlock stood beside her, ignoring the cold that nipped at his cheeks. 

Margaux laughed to herself. “I told Mrs Hudson we wouldn’t be long.”

“I’m sure she’ll understand when we tell her where we’ve been.”

She paused. “Promise me you’ll never stop doing things like this... surprising me, paying attention to memories, revisiting lovely moments.”

“I promise.” He pushed his hands into his coat pockets. “Though I wouldn’t say this was a ‘lovely moment’, last time we stood here you almost got shot.”

“Ah yes, the first time I got threatened with a gun. Little did I know there’d be plenty more times after that. It’s funny, no one ever tried to shoot me until I met you. Then bam! Museum, Moriarty, Eurus…"

“You need to stop rubbing people up the wrong way.” 

She snorted out a laugh.

He grinned, his eyes creasing at the corners. “It seems such a long time ago now.”

“It _was_ a long time ago.” She looked up at him. “You know I had the biggest crush on you, even back then. I picked the dress I wore that night with you in mind. Not that you noticed…”

“Oh I noticed.” 

She laughed again. “But really. I used to get excited when I ran into you at Bart’s. I even told Rose I fancied someone at work. Didn’t mention it was you.”

“I had no idea.”

“Oh come off it. I tried it on with you; do you not remember? I helped you solve a case then I asked you out for a drink. You literally said ‘no’ and left.” 

He winced. “God. And yet you kept trying.”

“Well I got you into bed in the end, so I guess I was onto something.”

She leaned forward, looking over the edge of the balcony. The wind blended with the sound of whooshing cars in the distance as the rain danced on the pavement below. She turned back to Sherlock, glancing down at a box sitting in his hand. Her eyes darted between his face and the diamond ring that sat inside, her mouth dropping open as the facets glittered and reflected colours in the moonlight.

He stared at her, his face stern as he anxiously assessed her reaction. Then he realised he was still standing.

“Oh…” he said before getting down on one knee. He took a breath, preparing to speak.

“Sherlock,” she breathed.

“Don’t interrupt my train of thought,” he replied, his tone snappier than he had meant it to be. “Sorry.” He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry. Have I ruined it?”

“No! No, you… no.”

“Okay.” He took another breath. The damp floor was seeping through the knee of his trousers, but he didn’t care. “My father calls my mother his ‘better half’,” he began. “I never understood why; I always thought it was some mushy term of endearment he used when ‘wife’ got boring. But now I get it.”

Margaux stared down at him, her chest rising and falling heavily. She threw her hood down; it didn’t matter that she would get wet, she needed to look at him properly.

“I do not feel whole unless I’m with you. You… are my _better_ half. You have been for longer than I think I even realised.” He brushed his soaking hair out of his face and wiped the rain out of his eyes with his sleeve. “When the world thought I was dead; when I… went away, there was not a day that I didn’t think of you. I wondered what you were doing, if you were safe, happy, if you’d met someone and fallen in love, if you thought of me. I looked for your eyes in every sunset, your beauty in every… _beautiful_ thing I saw. But when I came back… there was a little boy, and I got scared. So, I buried it – convinced myself I hadn’t felt those things.”

She bit her lip to stop it from trembling.

“I spent years keeping myself from you,” he continued. “I wasted so much time and I will regret it for the rest of my life. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

She covered her mouth. “Oh my god,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands.

“Margaux… Cave. Dr… Dr Margaux Cave,” he huffed and shook his head. “Well I messed that up.”

She laughed.

“Margaux, will you marry me?”

She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around him, squeezing him so tight he almost dropped the ring. She grabbed his cheeks and began to lay quick, urgent kisses across his face. He could feel her smiling as her lips met his.

He pulled away and slicked back her wet hair. “I believe John said you have to say yes or no.”

“Yes! Yes.”

He took out the ring, dropped the box to the floor and together, they slid it onto her finger.

She held out her hand, gazing at it in awe before looking back up to him. “You know what this means, don’t you? I mean, you’re absolutely sure–”

“Stop. Don’t. Of course I’m sure.”

“But Sherlock, you’re going to have a wife. You’re going to be someone’s husband…”

“I’m not going to be someone’s husband. I’m going to be _your_ husband. That changes things entirely.” He took her hands in his; she was shaking. “Are you nervous, or just cold?”

She dropped her head and breathed out a laugh. “Both.”

*

Mrs Hudson was sat upright on the couch, her head tilted back and her mouth open as she slept. Sherlock nudged her awake gently. She looked around the room with bewilderment. 

“Mrs Hudson, you fell asleep.” 

“Oh,” she mumbled, glancing over his shoulder at Margaux. She leaned in close to his face. “Did you do it?” 

He nodded, giving her a slight smile. 

She squealed and jumped up, rushing over to Margaux and pulling her into a hug. 

“Oh congratulations, congratulations!” She pressed her cheek against hers, smiling so wide the corners of her mouth ached. “Let me see.” 

Margaux held out her hand, the sight of the ring on her finger inciting butterflies in her stomach. “Right, I’m going to go and get dry,” she finally said, hugging her again before making her way to the bedroom. 

Sherlock was standing in the kitchen with his hands on his hips. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“I’m so happy for you, Sherlock.” 

“Thank you.” 

“I’ve got champagne downstairs!”

“That’s lovely, Mrs H, but it’s 2am.” 

“Oh,” she laughed. “Of course.” 

He rolled his shoulders, the dampness of his shirt sticking to his skin. He wandered slowly around the table, his excited landlady following him as she spoke. 

“We should have a party, don’t you think? We could do it here!”

He turned around to face her. “Yes, I suppose we should.”

“Nothing too crazy; just us, John, the kids. We could invite Molly, Greg, your mum and dad…”

He backed up into the doorway that separated the kitchen from the hallway, nodding politely.

Margaux emerged from the bedroom in a set of lace underwear and leaned against the doorframe. She cleared her throat, catching his attention with a smirk. His breath hitched as he laid eyes on her, before turning his attention back to Mrs Hudson in the kitchen.

“I could put on a little spread, tell everyone to dress up nice,” she continued, oblivious to what was waiting for him down the hall.

“Yes, yes that all sounds excellent,” he replied. “Really, I think you should plan whatever you want. I trust you, it’ll be great.”

“Really?”

“Yes! Whatever you want to do, let’s do it. You only get engaged once! Well, most of us.” His tone was overly enthusiastic. “Okay, goodnight!” he said chirpily before disappearing.

He rushed towards the bedroom, wrapping his arms around Margaux, hurrying her into the room and closing the door with his foot.

Mrs Hudson didn’t seem to notice. Instead, she smiled, turned around and made her way back to her flat.

*

“Well… Do you like it?” asked John as he sat at the living room table.

The sun beamed through the windows. It was so bright, it was hard to believe that the country had been engulfed by storms just days before.

Sherlock sat in the chair beside him with his laptop on the table. He took an agonisingly slow sip of his tea as John waited for him to speak.

“’The man who has mastered the art of deduction has also mastered the art of seduction.’ Really?” he finally replied.

“I thought that was clever.”

“Well firstly, it’s inaccurate; I did not _seduce_ Margaux into accepting my proposal. Secondly…” He scrolled further down John’s blog post. “’Sherlock has proven that as well as shooting holes in walls, he can also punch above his weight.’”

John snort-laughed. “It was a joke! I wrote plenty of nice things too! Like how I’m proud of you, how I feel privileged to have witnessed your relationship grow…”

“Mhm. How you… ‘have great admiration for the woman brave enough to bind herself to Sherlock Holmes by law.’?”

John chuckled and shook his head. “Do you want me to fix it?”

“No, it’s fine. You’ve already posted it now.”

Rosie began to stir in her pram, waking from her nap with a soft cry. John unstrapped her and lifted her onto his lap, shushing her gently. He looked up at his friend and smiled. “I am happy for you, Sherlock. So… unbelievably happy.”

Sherlock nodded, mumbling his response with a mouthful of tea. But behind his computer screen, he was smiling too. 


	5. In Black

Greg sat at his desk reading the newspaper. He took a sip of coffee and blinked away the tiredness that was still irritating his eyes. Sherlock opened the door and stepped inside, followed quickly by John. 

“I got your text, you have her name?” asked Sherlock bluntly. 

Greg looked up from the paper. “Hm?”

“The woman in pink, they’ve identified her…”

“Oh yeah, sorry... I was just reading about you. What’s it like being a celebrity?” 

He folded the paper in half and threw it onto the desk. Facing up was a headline: ‘London’s most mysterious bachelor set to wed.’

Sherlock rolled his eyes before glaring at John.

“I’ve already said sorry,” John shrugged. “I didn’t know my blog would make the tabloids. Must’ve been a slow news day.” 

Greg smirked. Sherlock was growing agitated. 

“The woman, Lestrade!” 

“Yes! Her name was Louise Corkhill. 32. She’s been homeless since she was 16 which is why no one reported her missing.”

John narrowed his eyes. “So, what’s her connection to us? To the first case?” 

“There isn’t one,” Sherlock interrupted. “The fact that she was homeless confirms my theory that the killer committed this murder for no reason other than to replicate the first. They chose her because she was a nobody who fit the physical appearance of the first victim - she was nothing more than a prop.” 

“And the scene was clean,” Greg added. “No forensic evidence besides that of the victim. No witnesses, nothing.” 

“Okay, so where do we go from here?” asked John. 

“Nowhere,” Sherlock replied bluntly. 

“Nowhere?” 

“I’ll put a pin in it.” 

“A pin in it!? Sherlock, a woman is dead.” 

“Yes,” he checked his watch. “And I have a wedding to plan.” 

Greg and John looked at him in astonishment. If anyone else had said it, they’d be filled with disgust. But it was Sherlock. So instead they remained silent.

*

Molly sat on the couch in 221B with her hands placed neatly in her lap. She glanced around the room, turning her head to look at the wall behind her. The back wall, which was often plastered with Sherlock’s investigations, was currently decorated with wedding plans – seating arrangements, invoices, colour schemes.

Margaux walked in from the kitchen carrying two steaming mugs. She handed one to her and sat down, following her eye line to the wall.

“It’s all Sherlock, you know?” she said. “He’s currently running a background check on the priest.”

“Oh yeah,” said Molly chirpily as she noticed a picture of a man in a white collar pinned to the wall.

“I think it makes him feel more in control, having it all plastered around like this. It keeps him busy, stops him from dwelling on the reality of the situation and getting cold feet.”

“Is he _really_ freaking out that bad?”

“He’s trying his best to pretend he’s not. But, I gave him the responsibility of choosing the song for our first dance; gave him all my records, CD’s and playlists and told him I trusted him to make the right decision… That was last week and he’s still ‘working on it’.” Margaux took a sip of her tea. “He’s absolutely freaking out.”

Molly laughed. “Well if you need any help, I’d be happy to take some of the pressure off.”

She smiled and placed her mug carefully on the floor. “Actually, Molly, there _is_ something I wanted to ask you. I wanted to ask you if you would be my bridesmaid…” 

Molly’s eyes grew round like saucers. She stammered for a moment, before finally managing a single word. “Really?” 

Margaux nodded with a smile. “Of course. I’ve already asked Rose, and my friend Steph is coming back from America, which I’m thrilled about. But I think the person I wanted to ask the most was you. But, Molly, I just want you to know that... if you don’t feel comfortable being a bridesmaid then I completely understand. I know the way you felt about Sherlock, and you’ve handled all of this so well. You’ve been so kind and understanding and supportive. You’re honestly too kind for this world, Molly. I think that’s why I love you so much.” She sighed. “But yeah I’m not going to force you into a decision, I’ll leave it with you–”

“Yes. Of course I will.”

“Really?” 

“Yes absolutely!"

They pulled each other into a hug. 

“Actually,” said Molly as she pulled away. “While we’re on the subject, I was wondering if I could possibly get a plus-one?”

Margaux’s mouth opened, curling up at the corners. “Have you met someone?” 

“I have. I really do quite like him.”

She squealed with excitement. “Who is he? What’s his name?” 

“Arthur Westbrook. He’s an architect. He’s really lovely.” 

“I’m so happy for you! And yes of course, bring him.” She paused for a moment before laughing to herself. “You know Sherlock is going to do a full background check on him to make sure he’s good enough for you…”

Molly smiled. “Yes, I thought he might. I suppose that’s why I kept it to myself for a while. He’s not like the others. He’s not just a couple of dates, or a clone of the person I really want.”

“Or Jim Moriarty.”

Molly laughed. “Or that.” She looked down at her tea. “He’s really quite special.” 

“Do you think he’s the one?” 

“Let’s just get through the wedding, hey. Let’s see how he fairs there; if he can have a conversation with Sherlock without melting into a puddle, then maybe he is indeed the one.”

*

London fell into a cool, dim evening as they waited outside the theatre amongst a crowd of other people. There was a bustling of excited conversation, a blend of perfumes and colognes in the air. Margaux linked her arm in Sherlock’s as she scrolled through her phone.

“It’s just never ending,” she said. “As soon as I think I’ve sorted something, something else comes up; flowers, food, seating plans, deposits, venues, centrepieces–”

Sherlock placed his hand on top of hers and gently lowered her phone. “Why don’t we put this away?”

“Ugh, sorry.” She slipped the phone into her pocket. “There’s just so much to do. Now I understand why most people have long engagements.”

“We’re not most people.”

“No, I suppose you’re right.”

If it makes you feel better, I chose a song.”

“You did!?”

He nodded.

“Well go on then, what song did you pick?”

“I’ve decided not to tell you. You said you trusted me; I’m testing that trust.”

She shook her head. He gave a slight grin.

The theatre doors opened, greeted with a murmur of ooh’s and eager chatter as the line began to shuffle into the building.

Margaux turned to Sherlock. “Are you ready to be scared out of your wits by the tale of the tortured spirit of Jennet Humphrey?”

“Oh yes, absolutely thrilled.”

“Please refrain from spoiling it by pointing out all the technical aspects.”

“I’ll try. But only because this is your birthday present.”

They got closer to the doors, waiting patiently for the ushers to check tickets and let people inside. Suddenly, a girl approached them excitedly.

“Excuse me, could I get a photo?” she asked.

Margaux looked up at Sherlock, then back to the girl. “Go ahead, I’ll take it for you.” She reached out to take the girl’s phone.

“Oh, no,” said the girl, pulling back slightly. “With both of you.”

“Sorry, I think you might have the wrong people…”

“I read Dr John Watson’s blog. I saw that you’re getting married. Congratulations! I’m a huge fan, I’m so happy for you.” She held up her phone. “Would you mind?”

“No, I don’t do photographs,” said Sherlock bluntly.

Margaux glared up at him before turning to the girl with a sympathetic smile. “I’m so sorry.”

The girl walked off quietly as Sherlock moved further up the line.

Margaux caught up with him. “You’re so rude sometimes.”

“I’m not rude. I simply have no obligations to anybody else. Nor does anyone else on this planet. Who you choose to oblige is your decision, hence why I’m about to spend two hours of my life crammed into a small theatre watching people collectively jump at a pair of actors saying ‘boo’.”

He handed their tickets to the usher who tore them and handed them back.

*

A voice sounded through the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, there will now be a short interval.”

The lights rose as the audience bustled towards the doors. Sherlock and Margaux got up and made their way out.

“So, what do you think so far?” she asked as they exited into the bar area.

“Of what?”

“Of the play, you numpty.”

“Oh, well it’s better than the opera.”

She rolled her eyes and glanced towards the bar. “Do you want a drink?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, well I’m getting one. Wait here.”

He stood aside, avoiding the crowds and queues as he waited for her to return. He found himself people-watching; noticing the woman who was having an affair, the man who travelled all the way from Liverpool just to see the play. He glanced across to the older couple waiting in line at the bar, at the husband’s shaking hands and red nose – alcoholic. The wife’s posture – narcissist. Sherlock liked to amuse himself by assessing strangers, sometimes doing it without even realising. He turned his attention to someone else, beginning to work out the man’s medical history from the way he tied his shoelaces, when suddenly a hard hand slammed into his back and a familiar voice made his stomach drop.

“Well if it isn’t Sherlock bloody Holmes!”

Sherlock turned around to see a man in a grey suit and too much gel in his hair. He had a large chin that jutted forward when he smiled. Charlie Owens. Sherlock’s body tensed.

“How the hell are you!? Still an oddball, I bet,” said Charlie in his obnoxiously posh boarding school accent.

“Charlie,” Sherlock replied calmly. “Still using the same hair gel, I see.”

Charlie snorted. “Sebastian mentioned he saw you few years ago; he said you still did that trick with the guessing.”

“It’s not a trick…”

“You remember Sebastian Wilkes? I work with him now at Shad Sanderson bank.”

He looked away, uninterested and unimpressed.

Margaux approached them holding two plastic glasses, she handed one to Sherlock. “Here, I know you said you didn’t want anything to drink, but the bartender gave me two instead of one and I was too awkward to correct him.”

“Who’s this then?” asked Charlie with his eyes buried in his phone. He looked up with an arrogant grin. “One of your blogger people?”

Margaux turned her head slowly to look at him, a wrinkle forming between her brows.

“What do you do then?” he continued. “Follow him around writing about all his weirdo antics?”

“I’m his fiancée…”

“Oh?” He sniggered.

“I’m sorry, is something funny?” she asked.

“No, no, just…” he gestured to Sherlock.

Her eyes flitted between the two men for a moment. “Just what?”

“Holmes tying the knot – the other guys are going to lose their minds!”

Sherlock remained quiet as he continued.

“You know he was such a pain in the arse at uni. If you were chatting up a girl when Sherlock was there, you could almost guarantee he’d do or say something to put her off you. One minute you’d be in there, the next she’d be walking away before you got the chance to bang her.”

“Maybe he was doing the girls a favour; saving them from sleeping with someone who refers to it as ‘banging’,” she replied dryly.

He laughed, checking his phone quickly and putting it back in his pocket. “Yeah maybe. I just…” he shook his head at Sherlock and laughed. “Holmes is getting married. To a woman! Ha, I’ll have to check the sky later for flying pigs.”

Margaux stood holding her drink with a blank yet perplexed expression on her face. Charlie laughed again and slapped him hard on the upper arm. Sherlock barely flinched.

Charlie winced and shook his hand. “Bloody hell, you’ve beefed up, haven’t you! It’s almost like you’ve turned into a normal person.”

Sherlock could practically see the steam rising from Margaux’s head. It had been so many years since university, yet he still knew to expect the insults, the name-calling, the patronising jokes disguised as banter. But Margaux didn’t, and her fury was palpable.

“Can I wager a guess that you weren’t particularly close at uni?” she asked, trying her best to be polite.

Charlie gave another snort. “You’re joking, aren’t you. We all hated him. He wasn’t even fun to take the piss out of because he’d just correct your grammar.”

“Hm.” She blinked slowly.

Sherlock placed his hand on the small of her back in a silent plea for her to ignore him.

“So, when’s the big day then?” asked Charlie, phone in hand again.

Sherlock sighed and cleared his throat. “May.”

“May? Like… this year? Bloody hell what’s the rush? Shotgun wedding, is it?” he snorted again, pointing at Margaux’s stomach.

“No…” she replied sternly.

Sherlock pushed his fingers into her back. She looked up at him with pressed lips and wide eyes.

“Oh, I wasn’t saying you _look_ pregnant. You look great… too great to be marrying this weirdo, ha!” His laugh bellowed through the room.

Margaux took a slight step forward, her body shielding Sherlock’s slightly as if she were protecting him. “Funny, you say all of this but… doesn’t it really say more about you? When the ‘weirdo’ is here with his fiancée and you’re here alone, checking your phone every few minutes to see if anyone on that dating app is interested in you.”

Charlie’s smile dropped. “How do you…”

“Yes,” Sherlock added. “How do you–”

“Oh, come on. I’m going to be Mrs Holmes, I’ve picked up some deduction skills from my ‘weirdo’ husband-to-be.” She glared at Charlie with her burning amber eyes. “No one’s interested in you by the way. Go ahead, it’s been a few minutes, check your phone. Confirm my theory.”

Sherlock lowered his head to hide the slight smirk growing across his lips. Charlie scoffed and fixed his suit jacket before running his hands through his gelled hair.

A voice sounded over a tannoy asking everyone back to their seats.

“Enjoy the rest of the show,” she said before taking Sherlock’s arm and walking back into the theatre.

Sherlock looked down at her as they walked back to their seats, his mouth creasing at the corners. “Have I told you I love you today?”

Margaux laughed. “I think so.”

“Well I have the sudden urge to tell you again.”

*

Two men stood centre stage, bowing together and smiling. The audience applauded them, rising to their feet with cheers and whistles.

“Has this convinced you to read the book?” asked Margaux as she continued to clap.

“I may skim it,” Sherlock replied.

Shortly after, the audience filed out of the theatre. Sherlock pulled on Margaux’s sleeve, holding her back and waiting until everyone had gone. She watched as he wandered through the rows of seats and up and down the aisles.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m looking for the secret entrance they used to sneak her in.”

“To sneak who in?”

“The actress.”

“Sherlock, there was no actress, she was a ghost.”

He gave a sarcastic laugh.

“Can’t you just enjoy the mystery?” she continued. “Instead of trying to debunk everything?”

An usher stepped through the doors holding a dustpan and brush. “Excuse me, you shouldn’t be in here.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied. “We’re leaving now.”

By the time they left, the crowd outside had dispersed; disappearing into taxis and wandering through the west end to the nearest pubs.

“Thank you for my birthday present,” said Margaux as they stepped out onto the street.

“You’re welcome.”

They stood for a few minutes waiting for a cab to turn onto the street, when suddenly, Sherlock’s back straightened.

“Did you hear that?”

“Hm?” She looked up at him, noticing his attention had turned to the alleyway down the side of the theatre.

“I heard screaming.”

“I think the stage door’s down there. Probably just the staff, the actors…” she stopped speaking, now hearing it too.

It was the muffled scream of a man. Sherlock darted down the alley, walking quickly, fearlessly towards the sound. Margaux rushed after him, catching up and staying glued to his side.

The alley was dark, not even the streetlights could reach it. The pair stumbled further down until eventually they reached him.

“Oh my god,” said Margaux.

Charlie Owens. Sherlock could tell it was him by the suit, the hair gel, the jutting under bite. He was moaning, wailing with fright and pain as he lay on his side on the damp, dirty cobbles. His knees were to his chest, his ankles bound, wrists tied behind his back. His face was bruising, blood trickling from his slick hair, and his eyes had been sprayed with yellow paint.

Sherlock cocked his head, as if completely unconcerned by the sight, but instead confused – intrigued. Margaux dropped to her knees, placing her hand on Charlie’s arm. He began to scream, writhing on the ground as if she were attacking him.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” she shouted. “What happened!?”

He didn’t answer, instead he lay there taking shallow, panicked breaths.

“Sherlock, you should call the police,” she said.

“Already texted Greg,” he replied as he examined the ground beneath him, before noticing something on the wall.

He took out his phone and switched on the torch light, shining it at the wall and taking a step back. On the bricks in bright yellow spray paint was a smiley face, and next to it were the words:

_‘Interested Yet?’_

*

Margaux walked across the hospital ward, approaching a bed that was hidden behind a curtain. As she got closer, she could hear Greg’s voice.

“Did he speak at all?”

“No, he didn’t say a word,” Charlie replied.

“So, you didn’t see him, you didn’t hear him–”

“I know it sounds impossible. But I really didn’t.” There was a pause before he spoke again. “He targeted me because I work at Shad Sanderson, didn’t he.”

“We don’t know anything yet–”

“It’s obvious. I get some random ticket in the post to see a play on the same night Sherlock Holmes is going to be there. I work at the bank where Sherlock was hired to solve a break in after the office was vandalised with yellow paint…”

Greg sighed. “Let’s go back to the attack. Did you get a look at the weapon? Any clothing?”

Margaux pulled the curtain back and stepped inside. Charlie was sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes were red and puffy, his cheek swollen and stitched. He looked at her before turning back to Greg.

“What’s _she_ doing here?”

“It’s my job,” she replied.

“Margaux’s a behavioural analyst, she–”

“You are joking, aren’t you? No way. I’m not speaking until she leaves.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “Do I intimidate you?”

“See the hostility! _I’m_ the victim in all this!” said Charlie. “I’m not answering any more questions until she’s gone.”

Greg escorted her out of the ward, stopping in the corridor and laughing. “What was _that_ about?”

“He wasn’t very nice to Sherlock so I put him in his place.”

“Put him in his place? The man was shaking at the sight of you.”

“He shouldn’t have been an arsehole to my fiancé then, should he.”

She began making her way back to ward.

“Hang on,” said Greg. “You can’t go back in there.”

“Why not?”

“He said he didn’t want you there.”

“Seriously? You’re removing me from the case because the little banker man got his feelings hurt?”

“He also got attacked and almost blinded.”

She sighed and looked away from him, almost sulking.

“Sorry, Margs.”

He made his way back inside, leaving her to stand stewing in the corridor. She looked down towards the lifts where the doors slid open and William came rushing towards her.

“Sorry, I’m late, I know–”

“Don’t worry about it. You might as well turn around and go home.”

“Why?”

“The victim’s scared of me. Doesn’t want me anywhere near him.”

“The… the _victim_ is scared of you?”

“It’s a long story.” She walked back towards the lift. “Sorry you made a wasted journey. Were you busy?”

He shook his head. “Just at home.”

“Oh, well now I don’t feel as bad.”

He laughed as they stepped into the lift. “So, how’s the wedding planning going?”

“It’s going,” she replied. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

“Mm, I don’t think–”

“Hey! You need to come! I’m counting on you to bulk up my half of the guests.”

They got out on the ground floor. He turned to face her with an awkward smile.

“I just… don’t think Sherlock likes me very much.”

“Oh, don’t take it personally, he doesn’t really like anyone who works for the police.”

“ _You_ work for the police.”

“Yes, but I sleep with him.”

“Fair point.”

*

Margaux walked into the flat and threw her keys onto the couch. She turned the corner into the kitchen, startled to see Sherlock sitting at his microscope.

“Sherlock,” she began, her voice croaking with exhaustion. “It’s almost 4am, why are you still up?”

“It’s not the same,” he said, his eyes never leaving the lens. “The paint. It’s not the same.”

“Well that doesn’t surprise me. It’s another cry for your attention. It’s all for you. As most things often are.”

“But there’s no lead. No clue. It’s not like Moriarty, where he would leave breadcrumbs to draw me closer. With Moriarty, there was a ‘why’. There’s none of that here.”

She sat in the chair next to him and sighed. “Because it’s not an invitation to play a game, Sherlock. It’s a taunt. A boast. It’s a ‘look at me, Sherlock Holmes!’.” She took his jaw in her hand and turned him to face her. “So, you need to _not_ _look._ ”

He stared at her, his eyes red and tired. “I need to know the ‘why’…”

“Right now, you need to come to bed.” She stood up and took his hand with a smile, encouraging him to come with her. “We’re taking your parents to see the wedding venue in _literally_ four hours.”

He looked down at the two samples of yellow paint sitting under the microscope. “They’re not the same…” he muttered to himself. 


	6. Stained Glass

The heavy metal door slid open with a whoosh. Sherlock stepped inside the room, bag in hand, and walked silently towards the glass. His eyes never left her as he placed his bag on the ground, watching as she sat still with her back to him, her long dark hair cascading down her back in frizzy waves. He stood quietly, making fists with his hands and stretching out his fingers in a slow, nervous rhythm.

After a few moments, he saw a twitch; a turn of the head, so slight, most people would have missed it. She was curious, he knew, wondering why he hadn’t unzipped the bag, why he hadn’t taken out his violin and began to play.

He took a breath. “I’m getting married, Eurus,” he said, his voice echoing against the stony walls. “In two weeks.”

She stayed sitting with her back to him. Silent and unmoving.

“I debated not telling you, but you’re my sister… I want you to know. I want you to know that you were wrong; you said love made me weak. But it doesn’t. Marrying Margaux does not make me weak. In fact, I feel this may be the bravest thing I’ve ever done.” He stepped closer towards thick glass that separated them. “You may find it silly, but I feel an overwhelming need to thank you... You almost killed her. I know you don’t care – I know you can’t help the fact that you don’t care. But if you hadn’t brought me face-to-face with the prospect of losing her, I’m not sure I ever would have admitted to myself that I was in love.”

She turned sharply, so quick it startled him. Her eyes were round and vacant, like she was looking straight through him. He thought she might speak, but she never did.

“You have your own place setting,” he said. “At the wedding breakfast. We’re keeping a seat empty for you, between Mother and Vaughan. Though you can’t attend, I wanted you to know we thought of you in our plans.”

She cocked her head. He sighed and sat down on the floor with his knees up, resting his arms on them.

They remained silent for a while. Her glare was terrifying, forcing him to look away for moments at a time. But when he spoke again, he was sure to look straight at her.

“You were wrong, Eurus. Love is not a disadvantage.” He cleared his throat. “I hope in these visits I’ve made to you, you are able to see that now.”

She blinked slowly, before standing up and lifting her violin. Sherlock watched as she began to play. The melody was sad yet romantic – a song he didn’t recognise. He sighed and clambered to his feet, unzipping his bag and raising the violin to his chin.

*

Molly stood with her arms outstretched, holding her breath as a measuring tape wrapped tight around her waist. 

“You’ve lost weight since the last fitting,” said the seamstress. 

“Really? Oh, lovely,” she replied with a giggle. 

“Not lovely when I have a fortnight to make alterations.” 

“Oh, sorry.” 

“You haven’t been dieting have you,” said Mrs Hudson as she sat on the small couch. “It’s bad for you. I’ve read things.”

“No, no. Arthur and I have been going on morning walks.” She smiled, her cheeks blushing. “I suppose the weight’s come off naturally.”

“Well that’s good,” Margaux added. “I’m sure it won’t be any trouble to take the dress in a bit...” her eyes darted to the woman as she knelt as Molly’s feet.

The seamstress stood up, forcing a smile. “Of course not. Shall we go and try on _your_ dress?”

Margaux nodded, placing her champagne glass on the table and following her into the small fitting room at the back of the boutique. 

Mrs Hudson leaned in to Mrs Holmes, speaking quietly. “This woman’s been nothing but rude, I don’t know why she chose her.” 

Rose tapped her on the shoulder. “That’s why,” she said, nodding towards the curtain as it slid open. 

Margaux stepped out in her wedding dress, greeted by a simultaneous gasp from the other women.

Delicate white lace decorated her chest, grazing below her collarbones and falling from her shoulders into long, sheer sleeves. The dress clung to her waist as if it were painted onto her skin in small, intricate brushstrokes, and cascaded to floor in a mix of lace and tulle. She turned around, the dress almost floating as it followed. She lifted her hair to show them; the way the lace framed her open back, and the ever-so-slight train. 

“Oh, Margaux,” Mrs Holmes breathed.

“It’s beautiful, so ethereal,” Molly added. 

“You look amazing,” said Rose. 

She turned around with a smile, swinging her arms to make the sleeves sway. “Thanks guys.” 

The seamstress eyed her design from top to bottom. “Are you sure about the neckline?” 

“Why?” Margaux looked down at her chest. “What’s wrong with it?” 

“Do you not think I should raise it slightly? Hide the...” she grimaced and pointed awkwardly at the thick scar across her collarbone. 

Margaux instinctively placed her hand over it. “Oh... erm... well, I, I don’t actually mind people being able to see it.”

The other women exchanged glances, all of them silenced by shock and disbelief. 

“Really?” The seamstress replied.

“Really…” 

“I think it looks great the way it is,” her friend Steph finally interjected. “Hiding it would make it seem like it was something to be ashamed of.” 

“I was not implying she should be ashamed,” the woman snapped. 

“If Mary was here, she’d have smacked her ‘round the head by now,” Mrs Hudson mumbled.

“Y’know what, it’s fine,” said Margaux, taking a deep breath. “You’ve done a beautiful job, I love it and I’d like to keep it the way it is, thank you.”

“ _You’re_ the bride,” she replied, her voice laced with cynicism. 

Margaux followed her back towards the dressing room, her hand moving from her collar to her neck as she traced her fingers across the ridges of her scar.

She emerged from behind the curtain again in the dress she had arrived in. White, fitted to her body and cut just below the knee. She smoothed her hands over her hips and fidgeted in her heels as the five other women collected their things and filed out of the boutique. She reluctantly thanked the seamstress and followed them out into the street.

“I’ll be having Mikey doing a thorough investigation on her,” said Mrs Holmes, her bright blue eyes narrowing with anger. “She better hope that her business is above board or I’ll have him shut her down. Horrible woman.”

“Can you wait until after the wedding? I’d like to make sure we get our dresses,” Margaux laughed.

“Oh, I know, I’m sorry,” she shook her head.

She placed a hand on her shoulder. “Let’s just enjoy my hen night, ey?”

*

Sherlock placed his bag on the floor and fixed his suit jacket.

“Ah, good, you got my text,” he said as he looked across the room to John who was waiting in the armchair.

“I did. Bit short notice to find a babysitter though,” he gestured to Rosie who was playing on the floor beside him.

“That’s fine,” Sherlock shrugged. “She can be an honorary groomsman.”

Rosie looked up at him, speaking incoherently.

“I don’t know,” he replied. “You’ll have to ask auntie Margaux.”

John gave him a puzzled look. “Don’t tell me you understood what she just said…”

“Of course I did. She asked where Vaughan was.”

“No way. There’s no way you- hold on, you don’t know where your son is?”

“I assume he’s with my father. Perhaps I should call, just to be certain…”

“ _Perhaps_.”

…

John rocked Rosie to sleep in her pram as Sherlock handed him a bottle of beer. He took it and looked up at him.

“You actually bought beer?”

“Yes. Sorry, I know the best man is supposed to organise the stag night but–”

“But he couldn’t make it?”

“What?”

“Sherlock,” John let out a breathy laugh. “You know you haven’t actually asked me to be best man, don’t you? The wedding’s in two weeks and not a word.”

“Well I thought it was implied. Who else would I ask?”

“Your brother…”

Sherlock twisted his mouth in disdain. “I think we’d both rather spontaneously combust. Mother insisted I make him an usher though, which he reluctantly accepted.”

“So, you were just… not going to ask me? You were going to have me turn up on the day with no speech planned.”

“But you _have_ planned a speech.”

“How do you know that? Actually, never mind.”

“Oh, stop stropping, John. You’re my best friend, I would choose no one else.”

John looked down at his beer and smiled. “Aww.”

“Shut up.”

Footsteps began to creak up the stairs. Sherlock turned his head slightly, assessing the sound – expensive shoes, walking cane, or was it an umbrella? He listened again, it was an umbrella. He sighed.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” he asked, taking a swig of beer.

Mycroft appeared in the doorway with a muted smile.

“Oh, it was nice of you to invite your brother,” said John.

“He didn’t invite me.”

“I didn’t invite him.”

They spoke at the same time, both looking at John with the same expression.

“No,” Mycroft continued. “Actually, I’m here because I wanted to speak to you about something which has been brought to my attention.” He walked forward. “I am aware of the so-called ‘copycat’, and I believe it would be in your best interests for Dr Watson to take down his blog.”

John sat up straighter. “Take it down?”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted.

Mycroft sighed. “Brother dearest, it does not take a consulting detective to deduce that this person is getting their information from Watson’s website. It’s like a manual on how to commit a crime.”

“So?”

“So… with your upcoming nuptuals–”

“You think they’re going to try and ruin the wedding? How?” Sherlock replied. “Kill a guest by putting a blade in their belt?”

“Or they might just give a ridiculously long, dramatic speech…” said John sarcastically, his eyebrow raised.

“You promised I didn’t ruin your wedding.”

“As much as I enjoy the pally banter,” said Mycroft. “I must urge you to consider my request.” He turned to Sherlock. “I know it may be hard to comprehend, but I actually want your day to go well. I am… happy for you.”

Sherlock looked at the bottle in his hand. “How many of these have I had?”

John snorted.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and tucked his umbrella under his arm. “Goodnight.” He strolled out of the flat and disappeared down the stairs.

“Should I delete it?” asked John. “I mean, what he’s saying is right. I wrote about what happened at my–”

“Nothing will happen at the wedding.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“I can’t explain it, I just know.”

“Well,” John emptied the last of his beer into his mouth before standing up to go and get another one. “If I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s not to question you.”

“You question me all the time.”

“Yeah. Just because I’ve learned not to doesn’t mean I don’t.” He sat back down, handing Sherlock another bottle. “Here.” he held it up in the air. “A toast… to your last fortnight as a single man. I have no doubt you’ll be spending every single day of it with me.”

Sherlock raised his bottle. “To us.”

John laughed, taking a sip of his drink. "Why don't you want the blog to come down?" 

"Because if it comes down, everything may stop." 

"Oh don't tell me you're getting involved in it. Sherlock, you promised Margaux you'd leave it." 

"I didn't actually use the word 'promise' so…" 

"What could you possibly gain from this person copying more cases?" 

"If I let them carry on, eventually they will make a mistake. They all do." 

"Sherlock, there are some cases we've worked on… things that could be catastrophic…" 

"I'll catch them before it gets to that."

"How can you be sure?" 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

"You're being cocky again," said John. "I've told you it makes me want to punch you in the face." 

He chuckled and leaned back in his armchair.

*

In the early hours of the morning, the flat was still. John had gone home, wheeling Rosie’s pram into a black cab and disappearing down the empty street. Lamplight glowed and glinted across the empty beer bottles that sat on the table as Sherlock stood at the window playing his violin. He was trying to replicate Eurus’ song, never quite matching it.

Margaux wandered through the door. He turned around to the sound of her keys jangling as they landed on the couch.

She grinned at him. “That sounded beautiful. Don’t let me interrupt.”

He put the violin down and walked across the room to her. “It’s okay,” he said, placing a kiss on the side of her head. “I was just doing it to help me think.”

He headed into the kitchen. She stood on one foot, wobbling as she tried to take off her shoe.

“How was your stag?” the words were slippery on her tongue.

“It was fine. We had a few drinks, then Mycroft came.”

“Oh, you invited Mycroft?”

“No. He came to ask John to delete his blog. Said he’s ‘concerned’.”

“The copycat?” she was hopping, stumbling all over the place as she wrestled with the buckle on her shoe.

Sherlock emerged with a glass, reaching out to hold her arm and steady her.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“It’s water. Also known as H2O…”

“No, I-I-I know what it is, Sherlock. Why’re you giving it to me?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

He placed the glass on the small table beside the armchairs before taking a seat.

“I’m not drunk!” she protested, before finally releasing the strap on her second shoe.

She kicked it off, sending it flying across the room, and followed him, dropping herself into his lap and wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed him deeply, pressing her body against his. Her lips tasted like cigarettes and alcohol; but to him, it was divine.

“Okay, maybe I’m a bit drunk,” she said.

He reached for the water and handed it to her. “Drink.”

Margaux tipped her head back and gulped it down. Streams of water trickled from the corners of her mouth, cascading down her neck onto her dress. Maybe she was more than ‘a bit’ drunk.

He brushed her hair off her shoulders and smiled. “You’ll thank me in the morning.”

She downed the entire glass, letting out an ‘ah’ before wiping the water from her mouth. “I only had a few gins. Maybe a shot or three.” She felt the droplets tickling her neck and looked down at the damp patch on her dress. “Oh… When did that happen?”

Sherlock let out a soft giggle. “Come on, I’ll help you get undressed.”

She raised an eyebrow as he lifted her off his lap. “I like the sound of that.”

“No…”

She gasped. “Don’t you fancy me?”

“Oh, shut up, will you,” he laughed before hoisting her into his arms and carrying her through to the bedroom.

“Do you still want to marry me?”

“Of course I do.”

He placed her down gently, closed the bedroom door and turned her away from him. His fingers found the delicate zip and pulled it down in one smooth motion. Then he slid off the straps, allowing the dress to pool at her feet.

“Y’know I’m not _that_ drunk,” she said. “I could’ve done this myself.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Which makes me think you _wanted_ to undress me…”

He rolled his eyes. “I’m taking care of you. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?”

He slid open a drawer and took out a t-shirt. He unfolded it and slipped it over her head before untucking her hair from the neckline and ushering her towards the bed. She dug her heels into the carpet and turned around with a frown.

“I haven’t taken off my makeup…”

“So?”

“So, I may be drunk but I’m not a savage.”

“Fine, what do you need and I’ll bring it to you.”

He collected her things from the bathroom cabinet, carrying them in and placing them on the bedside table. He sat with her on the edge of the bed, watching as she swept a cotton pad over her eyes.

“How was your hen night?” he asked.

“It was nice,” she replied. “But you know what, the whole time I sort of… missed you.”

“You _missed_ me? I thought you’d be thrilled to get away from me.”

She laughed. “I thought so too. But no.” She looked up at him, fresh-faced and smiling. “I suppose it shows I’m making the right decision… You, I mean, _you’re_ the decision I’m talking about.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” he placed his hand on her face. “I love you.”

She leaned in until her lips met his, kissing gently at first, then suddenly with more hunger. Her hands cupped the back of his neck, pulling him into her as he placed his hand on the bed to steady himself. She peeled herself away.

“Will you have sex with me now?” she asked bluntly.

He narrowed his eyes. “So… _eloquently_ put.”

She shrugged. “I can put the dress back on if you want. Do a little dance.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

Sherlock was used to getting his own way. But letting _someone else_ get their own way, that was a different thing entirely. Of course, he gave in to her, allowing her to pull him close and unbutton his shirt.

Fourteen more days, he thought, fourteen days and then the rest of their lives. 


	7. The Book of Love

John's silver hair was combed neatly and slicked to one side. His suit was neat, his Best Man speech written out on a piece of paper, folded and tucked away in his breast pocket. He stepped into the small newsagents with his daughter, their formal attire a stark contrast to the clutter of snacks and soft drinks surrounding them.

He walked up to the counter. "Twenty... er..." he looked down at his phone. "Marlboro Red?"

The clerk nodded and turned around to the wall of cigarettes behind him. He lifted a pack and set them down, eyeing Rosie as she toddled around the shop in her poufy white dress.

"They're not for her," John joked. "They're for a very stressed-out groom."

The man gestured to the stack of newspapers beside them. "You're not on your way to _that_ , are you?"

John glanced over at the headlines: 'HAT DETECTIVE TO WED TODAY.' He handed over the money and slipped the box into his pocket.

"I am, actually, yeah..."

"Really? Wow." The clerk leaned forward, resting his hands on the counter. "So, what's he really like then? The papers always make him out to be this mysterious vigilante type. But is he really like that?"

"Well he just text me asking me to bring him cigarettes. So right now, I'd say he's probably on the verge of a breakdown."

*

Sherlock was on the verge of a breakdown. At least, that was what others would say. He stood in the middle of 221B Baker Street in his black three-piece suit with his violin resting beneath his chin. He lifted the bow and ran it shakily across the strings, while his other hand couldn't seem to hold a chord. He huffed and let out a low, frustrated growl.

"Oh, what's the matter, Sherlock?"

He turned around to see Mrs Hudson standing in her floral dress; a concerned expression peering at him from beneath an extravagant lilac hat.

"I can't... play," he replied through gritted teeth before looking down at his hand. "My fingers seem to be trembling. Perhaps a sign of an underlying neurological issue..."

Mrs Hudson giggled. "You've got the shakes."

"What?"

"You're just nervous." She walked up to him, fixing the flower pin on his chest and straightening his pale grey tie.

He looked down at her, watching as she took so much care folding his shirt collar and smoothing it down. Her eyes were teary, her lip holding back a tremor.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

She glanced up at him, shook her head and smiled. "You just look so handsome," she said. "I'm so proud of you, Sherlock."

"You're acting like I'm going to die."

"Oh shush," she batted her hand at him and took a step back. "I just... I've always known deep down that you would marry someday. I feel very protective of you, like you're my own son, and mothers... they just know these things. It's like a sixth sense."

"How could you possibly have known?"

"Because you're lovely, Sherlock. Because underneath it all, you're a caring soul."

He pulled a face. She ignored it as she continued.

"You're loving, and despite the way you present yourself to the world, you're _lovable_ too."

Sherlock began to roll his eyes, but stopped himself as he looked at her; at her beaming smile and glossy eyes. He sighed.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson."

"What for?"

"For everything. And you can stop worrying; I may be getting married, but we both know I'll always need you." He stepped forward and placed a kiss on the side of her forehead before putting his violin back on its stand.

John walked into the flat with Rosie resting on his hip. Her pearly blonde hair was long and wispy; he had done his best to somewhat style it, but his lack of practice was clear. He put her down on the floor, she ran towards the kitchen and began to shout.

"Von!"

"He will be down in a moment," Sherlock replied before his head snapped up to John. "Do you have them?"

John nodded, taking the cigarettes out of his pocket and handing them over. He unwrapped them hastily, ripping away the foil and sliding one out of the box with his teeth.

"You're not lighting up in here, not with the kids around," said John.

Sherlock grumbled as the cigarette rested between his lips.

"Oh John, here," said Mrs Hudson as she rushed into the kitchen. She returned shortly after with two flower pins. "Here's yours. I'll do Rosie's."

"Thanks," he said as he attached it to his suit jacket. "So, this is your wedding party, is it? Me, Mrs H and the kids?"

"My parents are on their way," Sherlock replied as he peered out of the window. "I believe Mycroft has organised a 'nice car', whatever that means."

Vaughan walked into the living room with a face like thunder. His small suit was identical to the men's, even down to the pale grey tie. His dark, wavy hair had been brushed back and tucked behind his ears, and his walk was clunky in his shiny black shoes.

"I hate this," he said. "I look stupid."

"You're four," Sherlock replied. "Do four-year-olds even care what they look like?"

"They should if they look stupid."

"Oh, Vaughan, you don't look stupid, you look adorable!" Mrs Hudson cupped his face in her hands and pushed his cheeks together.

Sherlock watched as Rosie ran over and squeezed him tight. He watched as Vaughan returned her hug and the pair began to giggle with excitement. It was in these moments that his son most reminded him of Margaux; in his warmth and patience.

Two shiny black cars pulled up outside Baker Street, and within moments, Mycroft and his parents were walking into the flat. Mrs Hudson greeted them kindly, handing them their flowers and offering them drinks. Mycroft looked across to his brother who was standing alone near his armchair, his arms behind his back as he stared ahead into nothing.

He approached him slowly. "If it wasn't for mother reminding me every five minutes that it's your 'special day', I may have abdicated my role of usher just so I didn't have to wear this suit..."

"Really?" he snapped out of his trance, looking him up and down. "I went with black just for you. It's _slimming."_

Mycroft smiled sarcastically. "Not even a top-hat? Tails? A cravat?"

"I decided all of that wasn't very... me."

"Ah," he gave a slight laugh, his eyes flitting across his brother's face. "You hold tension in your forehead. Might want to try and relax it a bit."

"Mike..." their mother glared from across the room. "Be nice."

He turned back to him and exhaled before reaching out his hand. Sherlock looked down at his extended arm and back up at his face, his brow furrowing slightly.

"It's called a handshake," said Mycroft.

He took his hand.

"Congratulations, baby brother."

"I haven't gone through with it yet."

"No, but I'm trying to be nice. As per mummy's request." They shook hands firmly. Mycroft leaned in, speaking quietly. "I am... incredibly happy for you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh God. Are we really doing the 'loving brother' thing?"

"Just for today."

*

  
Sunlight shone through the tall windows, laying a frosted glow across the small room. The walls were a mixture of stone and wood, and the air smelled like musk and incense. The muffled sound of voices drifted from the church as guests waited in the pews.

Margaux had spent the entire morning in the company of her bridesmaids; they had distracted her as they got ready, eased her panic as they gathered for photographs and held her hand as they walked up the steps of the church. But now she was alone, standing in the small back room waiting for the word that they were making their way down the aisle.

A large, old-fashioned mirror leant against one of the walls. She looked at herself one last time, twisting her body to check that her dress was sitting right. She leaned in close, checking her makeup and re-positioning her veil. _Oh my god, you're getting married,_ she thought to herself, as if it hadn't quite dawned on her until that very moment. She stepped back, letting out a shaking breath and twisting a loose strand of hair around her finger when suddenly, the door creaked open and Mycroft stepped inside. 

"Come to walk me down the aisle and give me away?" she asked.

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers and allowed a brief smile. "Margaux, the idea that you are something that one man can give to another is absurd."

She smiled. "That was the correct answer." 

"I came to tell you they are ready. Your bridesmaids will be walking shortly so you need to make your way to the entrance." 

She nodded and took a deep breath. He could sense her nerves as she fiddled with the sleeve of her dress.

"It is with the upmost reluctance that I tell you, you look beautiful." 

"Thanks, Mycroft." She laughed slightly, looking in the mirror at herself. "It's funny. I'm marrying Sherlock, but in some ways, I feel like I'm marrying you too. When I say those vows, I'll be gaining a husband, parents, a brother..." 

He lowered his head for a moment. "I do hope your expectations are low. We have proven to not be the most functional family unit." 

"Yes, well I gathered that when your sister tried to kill me."

He laughed. "See you out there... _little sister_."

"Mycroft..." 

He turned back. "Yes?" 

"You know him." She paused. "I understand your rivalry goes back to childhood, but if we're honest, you know him better than anyone."

He nodded, wondering where her point was going. "Mhm?" 

"Will he be happy? All of this... it's not just some gesture on his part to make _me_ happy, is it?"

He sighed. "As my brother waits at the altar, I have been making some deductions of my own. He has blotted his brow with a handkerchief four times, removed and reattached his flower three times and exchanged a glance with our mother twice. He has checked his own pulse, changed his stance periodically every ten seconds, and asked Dr Watson if his _hair_ looked okay..." 

Margaux giggled.

"He is nervous. My brother does not get... _nervous_. Does that answer your question?" 

She nodded.

He glanced out into the church as music began to play. "It's time."

*

The church was small; intimate yet bright as light poured through the stained-glass windows. John turned his head as music began to play and watched as the bridesmaids walked slowly down the aisle.

Margaux's friend Steph walked first; the long dress trailing behind her. Next was Molly, with Rosie by her side. She blushed and smiled shyly as she held her bouquet in front of her, while Rosie toddled happily with her basket of petals, forgetting to scatter them in her excitement. Finally, Rose appeared in the entrance. Her auburn hair was styled neatly away from her face and she was holding hands with Vaughan who was doing his best to look happy despite his suit.

John smiled as memories from his own wedding flooded his mind. He waved at Rosie and gave her a thumbs-up, mouthing 'well done' as Molly sat down and lifted her onto her lap. He glanced back down the aisle, his mouth falling open slightly as Margaux finally appeared.

Sherlock kept his eyes ahead, his hands clasped together in front of him. A collective gasp echoed across the church, but still, he did not look.

"Oh my god, Sherlock," John whispered as he turned back to him.

"You shouldn't say that in here," he replied.

John rolled his eyes and nudged him gently. "Turn around."

"I can't."

"You need to. Trust me."

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned his head, the hairs on his arms pricking against his sleeves as he laid eyes on her. He swallowed down the lump forming in his throat, his gulp so audible that it made John give him a reassuring pat on the back.

Margaux only realised she was holding her breath when she reached the altar. She blew out the air softly, smiling at Sherlock as their arms brushed against each other.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hi."

The guests sat down. She looked back at them for a moment; at the small scattering of people. She thought it would be upsetting to see the pews so empty. Yet as she stood up there, she felt a strange wave of comfort.

The priest raised his hands and began to speak. "We are brought together today to celebrate the love between Margaux and William."

Sherlock grimaced, Margaux stifled a laugh.

In the pews, Lestrade leaned in to Mrs Hudson. "Who's William?"

"It's Sherlock's first name," she whispered.

"You are having a laugh–"

"Ssssh."

The priest continued to speak, his voice echoing against the arched ceiling. "Marriage is a commitment that should not be entered into lightly. It is a life-long declaration of one's love, support and obligation, binding in law and in the eyes of god."

Margaux glanced up at Sherlock, noticing the slight roll of his eyes. She elbowed him softly, smiling as he looked down at her.

The priest spoke for a long time, and although it couldn't have been more than five minutes, the pair felt as though they had been standing there for hours. A mixture of relief and fear washed over Margaux as he instructed them to face each other. She handed her bouquet to Molly and turned to him. Sherlock took her hands in his, giving them a reassuring squeeze, though he wasn't sure who needed the reassurance more.

John stepped forward, taking the rings from his pocket and handing them to the priest. The priest held the rings in the palm of his hand as he spoke.

"May these rings be blessed as a symbol of your union. As often as either of you look upon these rings, may you not only be reminded of this moment, but also of the vows you have made and the strength of your commitment to each other." He handed Sherlock Margaux's thin white-gold band, instructing him to hold it near her finger. "Will you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes take Margaux Cave to be your wife? Will you promise to be faithful to her always? To love and honour her, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, 'til death parts you?"

Sherlock's breath quivered. "I will."

She smiled as he pushed the ring onto her finger. "Phew," she whispered.

A smile cracked the corners of his mouth.

"Will you, Margaux Cave take William Sherlock Scott Holmes to be your husband? Will you promise to be faithful to him always? To love and honour him, for better for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, 'til death parts you?"

"I will," she said before sliding the wedding band onto his finger.

They turned back to the priest as a whimpering drifted from the guests behind them. Sherlock's mind wandered, for just a moment, as he tried to decipher who was crying by the cadence of their sniffling.

The priest continued the ceremony, reciting quotes and saying prayers, until eventually, he raised his hands and finally said the words everyone had been waiting for.

"It is with great honour that I can now call you husband and wife. You may now share your first matrimonial kiss."

Margaux fought the urge to swear with relief. She placed a hand on Sherlock's face and pulled him down to her. But his kiss was chaste – light and quick, almost reluctant.

Their guests applauded and rose to their feet, seeping into the aisle to take photographs as they signed the marriage license at the small desk near the altar. Vaughan made his way over. Margaux lifted him onto her lap, the three of them smiling as cameras flashed around them. But like a settling storm, the church grew quiet as everyone filed outside. John took Vaughan's hand, passing him a box of confetti and leading him to the exit.

"We have to go and wait outside," he said. "We're going to throw this over your mum and dad."

Vaughan took the box with a grin, looking back at his parents with excitement.

And suddenly, they were alone.

"Honestly," Margaux began as they strolled down the aisle. "I'm shocked they even let us in here. I'm not religious and I had a baby out of wedlock, and well... you've killed someone." 

"Don't forget the years of drug abuse," he replied. 

"Ah yes, that too." She laughed, before grasping his hand and pushing her fingers through his. "Well," she took a deep breath. "We did it."

"We did."

"Now for the hard part."

"That wasn't the hard part?"

"Mm, photos, shaking hands, speeches, socialising... doesn't sound like your cup of tea."

He frowned, then shrugged. "I'm good at pretending." 

They stopped just before the exit, the large doors muffling the sound of the guests outside. 

"Here we go," she said. "Big smiles..."

She took a step forward, but he stopped her. She turned to look at him as he stood firmly in place, and in one smooth motion, he took her face in his hands and kissed her. It was different this time – deeper, more intimate. Like he had been starved of her lips and was savouring every moment of them.

"I'm sorry I could not do that up there," he said as he rested his forehead against hers.

"It's okay. I know public displays of affection aren't really your thing."

"Yes. But only because this part of me belongs only to you."

She smiled. "That's fine by me."

"Shall we?" he gestured towards the doors.

She nodded, taking his hand again and allowing him to lead her out into the warm May sun.

Confetti fell from the sky like snow. He gripped her hand tighter, unsure if he would ever let go.

*

The reception venue was dark and romantic, with stone walls and marble floors, grand archways, grassy courtyards and hidden libraries. Sunlight flooded the main hall through large windows, where tables had been strewn with flowers and elegant centrepieces. Plates were empty and champagne glasses clinked as Margaux looked around the room. She smiled at Molly deep in conversation with her new boyfriend, at Greg making Mrs Hudson laugh as he tried on her hat, at Vaughan managing to draw a smirk from Mycroft. She felt a pang of guilt as she looked down the top table, at the empty chair between Mrs Holmes and Vaughan; an 'E' penned on the place card.

Sherlock was sitting next to her, staring down at his left hand with a burning intensity. He glared at the shiny wedding band wrapped around his finger, wondering if he would ever get used to the feeling of it there.

"You okay?" Margaux asked quietly.

He turned to her. "Yes," he said, looking back down at his hand. "Still feels rather... strange."

"I know," she said. "Quite sexy though, you wearing a wedding ring."

"Settle down, darling."

She giggled, fanning herself with her place card.

The sound of metal clinking against glass brought the room to silence before a man holding a knife and a champagne flute raised his voice. "Praise silence for the best man."

Everyone clapped as John rose to his feet, taking his speech out of his jacket pocket.

"Usually the groom speaks before the best man. But for any of you that attended _my_ wedding, I think you'll agree it's best if I go first..."

Laughter pattered across the room.

John cleared his throat. "I would start with how I came to be Sherlock's best man. But he technically didn't ask me, so I can't. He said it was implied, that he would choose no one else – sorry to anyone that wanted to be best man - But... when he said this to me, I realised how even after all this time; after being flatmates, colleagues – if you can call it that." He laughed. "After him being _my_ best man, even as I'm his son's Uncle John, and he's my daughter's Uncle Sherlock... I realised that I was still completely astonished to have this man call me his friend."

An audible 'aww' radiated around the room and Mrs Hudson lifted a napkin to her eye.

"I don't think many people can say they knew their friend was in love before they did. Honestly, I don't even think _I_ can say that. But someone who knew from the first time she saw the two of you together, was my late wife Mary." He cleared his throat, choking back the urge to cry.

Margaux's hand instinctively dropped to Sherlock's lap, finding his hand and gripping it tight.

John continued. "Mary championed love. Everything she did was for love; she was driven by it, and she eventually died for it. Funnily enough, some of my fondest memories of her are when we talked about Sherlock and Margaux. When she'd notice him give her a glance across the room and nudge me so hard she almost broke a rib. When I'd find her sitting in a mood on the couch, and when I'd ask her what was wrong, she'd say 'I just don't understand why they can't get together!'. When she chose them to be Rosie's godparents because she knew they'd make it, in the end. If she were here right now she'd give me a hard slap for speaking for her. But she's not, so I don't think she'd mind too much if I said this on her behalf: Sherlock and Margaux Holmes..." He stopped, laughing for a moment as people whooped and cheered. "I bloody knew it - I'm channelling Mary now - I bloody knew it. You are two of the most stubborn people I have ever met, which is how I know that your love must be damn strong. I wish you every ounce of happiness; I hope your successes are endless, I hope your fights are fiery and I'm sorry I can't be there to watch you both stumble blindly through this terrifying thing called marriage."

Margaux laughed, hiding a snivel. Sherlock squeezed her hand under the table.

John raised his glass. "To the happy couple."

Everyone cheered and took a sip of their drinks. John sat down and exhaled with relief, turning to Sherlock who gave him a nod. He nodded back with a smile before bracing himself as the man with the glass announced the groom.

The air seemed to leave the room as Sherlock rose to his feet, many of them experiencing a simultaneous flashback to John's wedding; to the awkward silences, the talk of dead bodies and blood, to him leaping over the top table and searching for a murder victim amongst them. Margaux looked up at him as he cleared his throat, waiting with bated breath for him to speak.

"Th... Er, thank you all... for coming." He paused, looking around the room at the eyes staring back. Waiting. "I er, as John has already so kindly pointed out, speeches are not my strength. I thought about repeating my performance just to annoy him but I didn't think that was fair for the rest of you."

There was a wave of laughter. He hadn't meant for it to be a joke.

"So, I will keep this short. To my parents, I want to thank you. As you can all imagine I was not the easiest child, or adolescent, even as an adult I have not been much better. Yet you sit here today proud of me... that is all I have ever wanted."

"Oh Sherlock," Mrs Holmes breathed, as Mr Holmes placed his arm around her.

"To my... brother Mycroft, I want to assure you. Though I am now a married man, I will always make the time to make your life as difficult as possible."

Everyone laughed as Mycroft raised a glass to his brother.

"To my son, Vaughan. I want to encourage you. While I feel privileged to see so much of myself in you, I urge you to keep tight hold of your mother's traits – they are like gold, and you will be lucky to have them. To my friends," he glanced across to Molly, Mrs Hudson and Greg. "I want to tell you that I am grateful for your patience and your indiscriminate support. To my best man and best friend John, I want to ask you... to remain the 'best' and remain by my side. Always."

John smiled, using his finger to blot away a tear on the inner corner of his eye.

"And," Sherlock turned to Margaux. "To my wife."

She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. _Wife._ She was his wife. The notion still hadn't sunk in, instead it sat in the air between them like oil on water.

"I want to promise you," he continued. "That I am unwavering in my love for you. I always will be."

He looked down at her, his blue eyes bright and intense. There was a long silence until she smiled up at him.

"You have to make a toast," she whispered.

"Oh, yes," he turned back to the guests, clumsily lifting his glass. "To Margaux. The most beautiful bride I have ever laid eyes on – how lucky I am, to be her groom."

There was a rumble of applause as Sherlock took his seat.

"Was that... acceptable?" he asked.

"It was perfect," she replied.

The man with the glass stepped forward again. "Praise silence for the bride."

Margaux stood up, immediately regretting her decision. She sighed, there was no turning back.

"Apparently," she began. "It's traditional for the father of the bride to give a speech. But since I don't have one of those, I thought I'd say a few words myself... We've heard a lot of things about Sherlock, and how him even sitting here today is a marvel. But what a lot of you may not know, is that in some ways, I'm more surprised to be sitting here myself. As you can see from my side of the table, I am lacking in the family department. I don't have proud parents, or a sibling to sit and yawn at my speech – well, technically I suppose I do now." She looked down the table at Mycroft. "Hi, bro."

The guests laughed.

"For most of my life I have been completely content with being alone. That was until one night about six years ago, when this guy finally gave in to my advances." She smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. "And from that moment on, I was a goner. I mean, he may be a nightmare but he's good-looking so can you blame me?"

Everyone laughed again. She blew out a breath and continued.

"It's true, Sherlock Holmes is just as aloof and straight-talking as people say, and the majority of you here have experienced his sharp tongue and somewhat unconventional ways first-hand. But the side of him that no one sees is the reason I'm standing here today. Nobody has ever made me feel more loved, appreciated and protected. No one has challenged me, supported me, or been so eager to learn about me. He has proven to be the best father and the most loyal friend, and I have no doubt in my mind that he will be a wonderful husband. So, if you would all join me in raising the last of your glasses to Sherlock..."

Everyone held up their drinks. She bent down and kissed him on the cheek.

"I love you."

"I love you too," he replied.

She sat down, throwing back the last of her champagne.

Sherlock leaned into her, bringing his lips to her ear. "I hate when people toast to me."

"I know, that's why I did it." She smirked.

...

Drinks were emptied and conversation flowed as the guests were moved into another room while they decorated for the night.

Mycroft had somehow found himself with Vaughan. They sat at the edge of the room people-watching; Mycroft with one leg crossed over the other, and Vaughan with his feet hanging over the edge of the seat.

"Can you speak French?" asked Vaughan as he kicked his legs.

"Yes."

"Prove it."

"Can _you_ speak French?"

"No."

"Well then how could I prove it you, if you don't know whether I'm speaking it correctly or not?"

Vaughan shrugged. "My mummy and daddy are going to France."

"Indeed, they are."

"Can I stay with you when they're gone?"

Mycroft chuckled. "I don't think so, little one."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't think your parents would agree. Besides, I work a lot."

"I could go to work with you. I go to work with my daddy. But don't tell mummy."

Mycroft revelled in the small moment of silence before his nephew began to speak again.

"Are _you_ married?"

"No."

"That's okay." He shrugged.

Mycroft looked down at him with a raised eyebrow. "I know it is..."

"I'm not going to get married either."

"And why is that?"

"Because I'm going to be a detective."

"Your father is a detective – well, somewhat," he muttered. "and he is married."

"Okay well I might get married then."

Sherlock and Margaux had slipped off quietly, stealing a moment alone while the wedding party drank and entertained themselves. He held out his arm for her to link as they wandered the halls slowly, peering into rooms and turning random corners until the sound of their guests was nothing more than a murmur.

Margaux stopped at a large window, gazing out at a beautiful courtyard glowing in the warm spring evening. She felt Sherlock's arms wrap around her, his chin resting on the top of her head.

She leaned back into him and smiled. "Y'know, it only really hit me when John said it... that we're Mr and Mrs Holmes."

"Technically we're Mr and Dr Holmes."

"Mm," she shook her head. "It doesn't really work; people will hear Mr and Dr and just assume you married John."

Sherlock gave a gentle laugh, his arms still wrapped around her.

"I appreciate you holding me that little bit tighter today," she said as she continued to look out the window.

"I thought it would provide comfort. To me, as well as you."

"Well it definitely has. Thank you." She turned around to face him, slinking her arms over his shoulders and weaving her fingers into his hair. "If someone would have told you when you first met me that one day we'd be married, would you have believed it?"

"No," he replied bluntly.

"Oh alright, you could have at least pretended to think about it a bit..."

"Sorry," he took a long pause. "No."

She laughed, pulling him down into a kiss. His hands fell from her waist to her hips, digging his fingers through the delicate mix of lace and tulle. She returned the gesture by pushing herself against him, inciting a groan in the back of his throat.

He pulled away. "We should go back to- erm... to the..."

"Wedding?"

"Yes. That."

She took his hand as they started making their way back.

"I'm your wife."

"Indeed, you are."

"And you're my husband. Sherlock Holmes is my husband..." she giggled.

He looked down at her, his nose wrinkled in confusion. She noticed his expression and laughed.

"Sorry, I think it's going to be a while before it sinks in."

*

They found themselves separated for most the night. Each time they would try to come together, they would find themselves pulled in different directions by people wanting to talk and take photographs. Vaughan and Rosie played together on the dance floor, chasing balloons and collecting decorations from the tables. Greg sat at a table with Mycroft, guzzling down a pint of beer while Mycroft periodically checked his watch, and nearby Mrs Hudson danced with Mrs Holmes, the pair giggling and trying to convince Mr Holmes to join in.

Margaux sat down with the people from work, turning to Will and elbowing him in the side. "Thanks for coming," she said.

"What?" He pointed in the air as the music played loudly.

"Nothing!" she shouted with a smile. She glanced over to the other side of the room, watching as Molly led her boyfriend over to Sherlock. "Oh god. Please be nice," she said to herself. "Be nice, be nice, be nice..."

Sherlock had found a quiet spot where he was seemingly invisible to everyone. Except Molly. He had never been invisible to Molly.

"Hi, Sherlock. This is Arthur," she said, doing her best to sound sweet despite having to shout.

Arthur extended his arm as Sherlock's eyes trailed him. He was shorter than he had expected, with rounded features and kind eyes. His suit was nice – bought especially for the occasion. Non-smoker, wine-drinker, plays guitar, keeps relatively fit. Architect – oh wait, Margaux had already told him that one.

He finally returned the handshake. "Pleasure," he said coolly.

"Congratulations, mate. The whole day's been beautiful, really. I'm honoured to have been there."

"Thank you, Arthur."

Molly's eyes flitted between the two men. Sherlock was being pleasant. She couldn't quite fathom it.

John sat down between Greg and Mycroft, folding his arms across his chest. "Well," he began, turning his attention to Mycroft. "I'd say today's been pretty smooth sailing, considering both Holmes' were present."

"There's three of 'em now, John," Greg added. "Sherlock, Mycroft and Margaux. If things weren't crazy before, they sure will be now. Imagine when the kid gets older, there'll be four of 'em!" He lifted a pint to his lips.

John laughed before turning back to Mycroft. "I think it's safe to say you can relax now. He told you nothing would happen today, and he was right."

"Just because we are not aware of it, does not mean it hasn't happened," Mycroft replied.

John opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by a voice booming through the speakers.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome Mr and Mrs Holmes for their first dance."

Everyone applauded, standing up and crowding around the edge of the dancefloor as the couple made their way over.

"Oh god," she said. "I just remembered I let you choose the bloody song."

"Ah yes, I forgot about that too."

She glared up at him.

"Relax. You said you trusted me."

She took a deep breath, allowing him to lead her into the middle of the floor. She did trust him. His judgement, however, she wasn't so sure. But when the gentle strumming of an old guitar began to play, she felt her muscles loosen and a shiver descend her spine.

"You chose this?" she asked as they began to dance.

He nodded. "I thought it rather fitting. Are you happy with it?"

"I love it – this song – I love it." she cupped his jaw. "I love _you_."

He took her hands and began to dance, his movements effortless as he turned her and pulled her close to him.

_The book of love is long and boring,_  
_No one can lift the damn thing._  
_It's full of charts and facts and figures,_  
_And instructions for dancing._

_But I, I love it when you read to me_  
_And you, you can read me anything._

_The book of love has music in it_  
_In fact that's where music comes from_  
_Some of it is just transcendental_  
_Some of it is just really dumb_

_But I, I love it when you sing to me_  
_And you, you can sing me anything._

_The book of love is long and boring_  
_And written very long ago_  
_It's full of flowers and heart-shaped boxes_  
_And things we're all too young to know_

_But I, I love it when you give me things_  
_And you, you ought to give me wedding rings_  
_I, I love it when you give me things_  
_And you, you ought to give me wedding rings._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Book of Love - Magnetic Fields.


	8. Honey

Margaux awoke with her face buried in her pillow. The thin cotton sheets were bunched up at the bottom of the bed, allowing a cool breeze to brush across her naked back. She propped herself up on her elbows, glancing at the empty space where her husband should have been sleeping. She climbed out of bed and picked a shirt up off the floor.

She walked out of the bedroom, glancing around the small apartment before noticing the open double doors that led onto the veranda. She stepped out into the fresh air and bright morning sun, smiling as she was greeted by the smell of coffee and cut grass. She leaned against the door frame admiring the view of the Eiffel Tower amongst a sea of green trees and blue sky, the sounds of the city in harmony with chirping birds.

Sherlock was sitting at a metal-framed table on the veranda. He was wearing a fresh white shirt, yet his hair was still wild from sleep. A cup of coffee sat in front of him, but instead of drinking it while gazing over Paris, his eyes were closed. Margaux watched as his eyelids twitched, his hands moving methodically as if he were sifting through a catalogue in front of his face. She waited for a moment, crossing her arms to keep the shirt from blowing open in the breeze.

Suddenly, his hands stopped moving and his eyes pinged open. He blinked rapidly for a moment as he adjusted to the sunlight.

"Found what you were looking for in there?" asked Margaux.

"I was just browsing the internet," he replied.

"In your head?"

"Yes," he nodded, finally taking a sip of his coffee. "I was searching to see if a photograph of our living room has ever been posted online, and if so, which of those photographs show the smiley face on the wall."

"Okay, and has there?"

"No. So how did the copycat know to spray one on the wall outside the theatre that night?"

Margaux sighed before sitting opposite him. She shivered as her bare thighs touched the cold metal chair. "Sherlock, you said you weren't going to engage in all of this..."

"I know, I know, we're on our honeymoon, it's not the time for–"

"No." She rested her arms on the table, leaning towards him. "I'm not talking to you as your wife right now. I'm talking to you as a doctor of forensic psychology; as someone who analyses criminal behaviour for a living. Sherlock, trust me when I say the worst thing you can do is try to solve these crimes. Whoever this person is, they're a fire. You're the fuel. Pursuing this will just make it worse. _Please_ trust my advice; believe it or not but I sort of know what I'm talking about."

He huffed and placed both hands behind his head, stretching as he leaned back in his chair.

"Also, speaking as your wife again," she continued. "There are _many_ things I'd rather be doing with you right now. None of which involve detective work..."

*

Sherlock had organised a route for them to travel, taking her to the locations of Paris' most infamous crimes. John had warned her before they left that he was planning something, and although she assumed that 'something' would be romantic, she wasn't disappointed by the morbid tour.

They crossed the road towards a large stone arch, the pavement below swarming with people. She let go of his arm and walked ahead before turning around and holding her hands out.

"Take a picture of me," she said.

"Why?"

She pointed behind her. "It's the Arc de Triomphe..."

He looked around at the bustling crowds. "Do I have to?" 

"Sherlock, love, if I can take a picture of you in front of La Santé bloody Prison, then you can take one of me in front of an actual tourist attraction."

He reached into his pocket reluctantly, taking out his phone and pointing it at her. He looked at her through the screen, noticing a small group of people beginning to watch them.

He lowered his phone. "Do you want to move somewhere else to take this?"

"Why? Not embarrassed of your wife, are you?"

He raised his phone again. "Dear lord," he muttered.

She had raised her arms above her head, grinning stupidly in his direction. He snapped the photograph and hurried to her side. She laughed as he wrapped his arm around her waist, her smile dropping as she realised he was ushering her away, so quickly he almost lifted her off the ground.

"What's wrong?"

"Something isn't right. People are watching us."

"And? They might just be captivated by my beauty," she joked. He glared at her. "Sherlock, they probably know who you are! You've been in the news enough."

"We don't know who the copycat is. For all we know it could be an organisation of people. They could have followed us here."

"Okay," she sighed, taking his hand as they began to walk.

Sherlock found himself looking over his shoulder as they walked the streets of Paris. He turned sharply down random streets, pulled her into bookshops and waited in the doorways of cafes. Yet each time, the small group of people were always somewhere close by.

"Do you believe we're being followed now?" he asked.

She glanced back and pressed her mouth into a straight line. "Okay fine, this is starting to get weird. What do we do?"

He pulled her down an alleyway, holding her in place and pressing his finger to his lips. She stood quietly, her heart pounding as they waited, until a shadowed figure appeared at the mouth of the alley.

Sherlock curled his hands into fists and bounded towards the person. "I know you've been following us," he said, almost growling.

A woman stopped, her eyes wide with panic as he approached her. "S-sorry," she said in a thick French accent, her voice quaking. "We are... fans."

He looked over her shoulder to the other people. "Fans?" His brow furrowed.

"Y-yes, you are... Sherlock Holmes, no?"

He stood silently, his eyes darting across the woman's face; analysing her. She was young, scared, and completely harmless.

Margaux emerged behind him, placing her hand on his back. "I told you," she whispered.

"Fans?" He said again.

The woman nodded before holding up her phone and showing him a website: 'Tableau de discussion de Sherlock Holmes'. "It says..."

"Yes, yes I know what it says."

"I am... so sorry Mr Holmes, we just thought we may get a photo, or maybe an autograph."

Margaux smirked as a mixture of relief and amusement washed over her.

*

They got back to their apartment in the late afternoon.

Margaux was still smirking as she locked the door behind them. "Do you believe now that your obsession with this case is having a negative effect?"

"Hm?"

"You almost beat up a group of people because they were fans..."

"If they were truly fans of mine then they'd know I'm not someone you should stalk."

She laughed. "I'll admit, that was stupid on their part. But can we agree now, that for the rest of our honeymoon you'll put all of this to the back of your mind? I want to enjoy this week."

He ran his hands through his hair and sighed. "Yes. I'm sorry, yes, you're right. I want to enjoy this week too."

"You sure?"

He nodded, wrapping his arms around her. "There is nothing I'd rather be doing."

"Good," she said, pulling him down for a kiss. "I'm going to open a bottle of that disgusting wine."

"I'll join you shortly," he replied as he wandered out of the room.

...

Light poured through the slats in the blinds. Sherlock parted them, looking out as the evening sun cast a golden glow across the other buildings. The bathroom was spacious and romantic, with marbled floors and dark walls. A large, deep bathtub stood below the window, filling quickly with hot, steamy water as he undressed beside it.

He climbed in and lay back, submerging himself completely beneath the surface of the water. Thinking. He had promised her he would forget about the case, but something was niggling in the back of his mind, as if he were being mocked and challenged all at once.

He emerged from the water, taking in a large breath before slicking his hair out of his face and wiping the water from his eyes.

Margaux was standing in the bathroom holding a glass of wine. "You alright?" she asked as she sat on the edge of the bathtub.

He nodded. "Trying to relax. Note I said _trying._ "

She smiled softly. "Can I join you?"

"In here?"

"Yeah? Conserve water, save the planet and all that."

He laughed. "Sure..."

She undressed and climbed in opposite him.

"Ever shared a bath before?" she asked as she relaxed into the water.

"What do _you_ think?"

She chuckled and took a sip of her wine. "Well you never know, you're full of surprises. I'm married to you and there's still things I don't know."

"Like what?"

"Like whether you've ever shared a bath with anyone..." She grinned.

He shook his head and laughed quietly. "No, I have not, and somehow I don't think that one's much of a surprise."

"Hm, I don't know. You were clearly more experienced than you led me to believe." 

"How so?"

"You always acted so disinterested in sex; like you had no desire to... _do it_ at all. But then that night when we finally–"

"You were expecting me to be bad in bed? Is that what you're getting at?"

She shrugged, letting out a laugh. "Well I'd be lying if I said I wasn't pleasantly surprised – very pleasantly, might I add – But what I mean is, your romantic past is still a complete mystery to me. Because on one hand you're scoffing at the idea of sharing a bath with someone, but on the other you're the best sex I've ever had."

He raised an eyebrow and gave a smug grin. She kicked him in the side, causing a splash of water to escape over the side of the bath.

"There is a difference between sex and intimacy," he said. "One _can_ exist without the other."

"So... the people you've slept with before me, you basically just used them?"

"Person. And I suppose it sounds rather harsh, but yes."

"Why?"

"Practice as research. I like to understand things; in order to understand something as complex as sex, one must experience it for themselves."

"Oh, I'm sure she was thrilled with that."

"What can I say, I'm a high-functioning sociopath."

She sat up, bringing her knees to her chest as she locked eyes with him. "When did you cross that line with me? When did it go from 'just sex' to intimacy?"

He sighed, his eyes never leaving hers.

"You don't have to worry about offending me," she said as she held up her hand, her wedding and engagement rings glittering in the light. "We got there in the end."

"The first time I gave in to you–"

"Nice way of phrasing it."

"You said you wouldn't get offended."

"Right, sorry."

"The first time I gave in to you, something had taken over me. I was overcome with lust, too strong for me to resist. It was that way for the next few times we met, until... there was a case I worked on; a woman was killed and I helped exonerate her husband of the crime. She left him a video message and somehow, I ended up there watching it with him. She spoke about love, selflessness, how he was more important to her than her own life. Something drew me to you that night, I don't even remember how I got to your flat. I just remember the overwhelming need to feel close to you."

She sat quietly for a moment with her arms wrapped around her legs. "But... that was years ago."

"Yes?"

"You had feelings for me all that time?"

"Possibly without realising it."

"I don't know whether to punch you or kiss you."

"I'd rather the latter. After all, as you say, we 'got there in the end'," he said, copying her by holding up his left hand and pointing to his wedding ring.

She slid forward, placing her hands around the back of his neck and sitting him up straight. She sat in his lap, wrapping her legs around his waist and placing her hands either side of his face.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you too."

She kissed him gently, her fingers weaving into his wet hair as his arms wrapped around her back.

"If this is a glimpse into what married life is going to be like then I am very happy," she said.

"I doubt the bath in Baker Street will allow for _this_."

"No, very true." She laughed, resting her arms on his shoulders. "I wonder if we'll live in the flat forever."

"Forever is impossible, unless we somehow become immortal."

"You know I don't actually mean forever. I just mean... If we could get a glimpse into the future, will we still be at Baker Street."

He thought about it for a moment. "No, I suppose not. I imagine we'll need to move somewhere larger when we have more children."

Margaux extended her arms either side of her, gripping the edges of the bathtub. "More children?"

He regarded the astonishment in her face and rolled his eyes. "Darling, I'm a husband and father. Don't look at me as though wanting another child is somehow out of character for me..."

She remained quiet, continuing to look at him.

"I am gathering from your expression that having another child is something we should have discussed _before_ getting married."

"Mhm..." 

Sherlock took her hands, loosened them from the rim of the bath and wrapped her arms around his back.

"You know I'm not proposing we have one right now," he said.

"The fact that you're proposing we have one at all is the part I'm stuck on."

"Margaux, I am completely content with my life the way it is. If the prospect of having more children is out of the question for you then... I am fine with that."

"No, no it's not out of the question. It's just... not every day you hear Sherlock Holmes say he's feeling broody."

Sherlock's mouth curved into a slight smile. "How about this: I feel that I am ready. When you feel the same, that's when we will take that step."

"Thank you," she said, resting her forehead against his.

He tilted his head back, his lips finding hers in a slow, yearning kiss as their bodies melted together like honey beneath the hot water.

*

For the next two days, they never left their apartment; their only sights of Paris being the view from their veranda. They slept until late morning and watched the Eiffel Tower light up each night. What happened in between was for no one else but them.

Margaux had gone out to buy dinner while Sherlock sat out on the veranda as the evening grew dark. He was smoking a cigarette, convincing himself it didn't count while he was in a different country.

The door creaked open and closed again. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Oh, good you're out there. Stay there, don't look."

His brows came together in confusion. "Okay?"

He listened as she hurried into the bedroom and shut the door, and it wasn't until he finished his cigarette that he realised she still hadn't made a sound.

"Margaux?" he flicked the butt into the ashtray and made his way inside. "Margaux, is everything okay?"

She opened the bedroom door with wide eyes, staring at him and assessing his reaction. She was wearing a new, very uncomfortable lingerie set.

"Well?" she asked as she walked backwards into the bedroom.

"I... shit."

She very rarely heard him swear, the word seeming so foreign as it slipped off his tongue.

She giggled with relief. "Really? I feel so stupid right now. I mean look at these, they don't cover anything!"

Sherlock gave an incoherent mumble.

"Is that all you can say?"

"S-sorry, I'm just trying to compute..."

"To compute what?"

"The fact that you're my wife."

She cocked her head to one side and pouted her bottom lip. "You're adorable."

"Not really the word you want to hear when your wife is standing across from you wearing _that_."

"Sorry, you're not adorable. You're big and strapping and tough and sexy–"

He interrupted her with a kiss. She giggled against his lips as he walked her backwards towards the bed. Yet as they reached it, a knock at the door made the room feel cold.

Margaux grabbed the thin, sheer dressing gown that matched her lingerie.

"You're not answering the door like that?" said Sherlock.

"I'll just pop my head around." She batted her hand at him and hurried out of the room.

She opened the door and peered around it, her brows raising as a muscular man in a dark suit stood on the other side.

"Mrs Holmes?" he asked.

"Yes?"

"I'm looking for your husband. We've been sent to collect him."

"By who?"

Sherlock walked into the room, looking over her shoulder to the man outside.

"Mycroft Holmes," the man said.

They let him in. He stood in the middle of the living area with his hands clasped in front of him. Sherlock threw himself down on the couch, crossing one leg over the other and placing his palms together in front of his face.

"There has been an incident in London," said the man. "Mr Holmes has asked that you be brought back immediately."

"What kind of incident?"

"I'm afraid I can't discuss it here."

"Well _I'm afraid_ you're going to have to. How else am I to determine whether it is important enough to prematurely end my honeymoon?"

The man sighed. "There has been..." he stopped, looking over at Margaux as she stood leaning against the wall. "Would you like to go and change?"

"I'm on my honeymoon. You're lucky I'm wearing anything at all," she replied dryly.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched, threatening a smirk. "Continue."

"There has been a number of poisonings – some have died, others are extremely sick. I can't say much more, but Mr Holmes is waiting back at the plane. He told me not to take 'no' for an answer."

Sherlock glanced up at Margaux.

She sighed. "Let me go and pack..."

*

The small plane soared through the clouds. Mycroft sat in a comfortable leather seat, one hand resting on the handle of his umbrella. Sherlock sat opposite, glaring at him.

"I apologise," said Mycroft. "For cutting your trip short." He tried to make it sounds like he meant it, but still, the disdain dripped from his words.

Margaux gave him a sarcastic smile before returning to looking out the window.

"Are you going to tell me what exactly has happened? Preferably before we land?" said Sherlock.

"Yes," Mycroft shifted in his seat. "It seems as though people are being poisoned. At first the cases were going undetected, therefore unconnected. But after a relative of one of the victims kicked up a fuss, the police were called." He looked at Margaux. "It was actually your little protégé that made the connection... You can add a gold star to his chart or whatever it is you do."

Margaux turned to him. "What connection did he make exactly?"

"He found a high number of unexplained deaths. Then according to Greg Lestrade, he went and did some digging. He found out that they all shared something in common. The victims. They all owned the same perfume."

"Perfume?" she replied.

Mycroft nodded before turning his attention to Sherlock. "It seems your copycat friend is trying to get you to come out and play."


	9. Come September

Eight frosted glass perfume bottles sat in a row on the kitchen table. Beside each one was a photograph of a different woman. Sherlock was leaning forward, his eyes narrowed as he looked at each one, rolling a sprig of the poisonous plant between his fingers. Through the glass, he could see John sitting at the other side of the table sifting through a thick manila folder.

Sherlock sat up straight, pointing at each bottle one after another.

"Dead, dead, sick, dead, sick, sick, sick, dead."

John's eyes darted between the folder and the perfumes. "You're spot on. How did you–"

"The amount of liquid left in each bottle determines how often the person used the perfume. More frequent use equates to a quicker death."

"Right. Of course."

"Have you searched the batch codes on the bottles?"

John turned to the laptop. "Yep. All different. Some were made years ago."

"Which means they weren't laced with the poison during manufacturing, distribution or sale. They've been targeted deliberately. The culprit has somehow gotten close enough to each of them to tamper with their perfume."

"Well great, you're getting somewhere."

"No."

"No?"

"Every person possesses a multitude of connections to others. Even per day, they have so many interactions."

"Well you can narrow them down, cross-reference. Isn't that what you did with the Mayfly Man? You kept going until you finally found the one thing all of those women had in common?"

"Yes, but that's what I'm saying, John. These eight women have a lot in common. These two share the same hairdresser, these three went to the same college, _she_ ran the London marathon last year and this woman was in the crowd. But why can't I find a common denominator between all of them?"

"Just give it some time, we don't know all the details yet."

"No, you're right we don't. Neither did Margaux's friend at Scotland Yard. So how did _he_ make the correlation?"

Sherlock stood up and walked into the living room where the wall had been strewn with photographs, clues and evidence. He stepped up onto the couch, his shoes pressing into the soft leather.

"I am looking at the victims, lined up and presented to me like a gift. Yet I still can't see how they are connected."

John followed him into the room, taking a startled step back as Sherlock charged across the room, sliding a dagger from his pocket and slamming it into the mantle.

"How!?" Sherlock shouted.

"It doesn't matter how. What matters is that now you know; you're taking a case with a head start, that's brilliant."

"No! It's not."

Sherlock stormed out of the flat as John followed close behind.

*

Margaux sat at work, her face falling naturally into a frown as she looked over the photographs pinned to her desk; Vaughan as a baby, her and Mary at Rosie's Christening, Sherlock and Vaughan play-fighting on the couch – her frown turned into a smile. She took two new pictures from her bag and pinned them up; one from their wedding and one from Paris – her frown returned.

"Aww look at that," said Greg as he leaned over shoulder. "So how was the city of love?"

"It was good for all of the five minutes we were there."

He laughed.

"One week," she continued. "That's all I wanted. Just one week undisturbed."

"Sorry, that'll have been my fault," said William as he approached Margaux's desk. "But in fairness, when I brought my findings to Lestrade, I didn't know he was going to call Mycroft Holmes."

"I had to," said Greg. "He's the only person who could get those perfumes tested immediately. Otherwise we'd have been waiting a week for our lab to do it."

Margaux looked up at him. "A week you say, Greg? I wonder what I could have been doing with that extra week..."

"Sorry," said William.

"No, don't be. This is some excellent investigative work." She picked up a folder from her desk. "Well done."

"Thanks." He smiled shyly. "Enough for a profile on the suspect?"

"A partial one, maybe."

Greg made his way back to his office as Margaux led William to a board on the other side of the bullpen.

"So," she began, picking up a pen. "We know that this incident is connected to at least two other crimes: the murder of Louise Corkhill and the assault on Charlie Owens at the Fortune Theatre. How do we know this?"

"Because they're similar to solved cases."

"Yes, but more specifically to cases involving Sherlock Holmes and written about on Dr John Watson's blog. So why has the suspect done this?"

"They're fans of Sherlock?"

She nodded. "There were two options: someone who is a fan, or someone who is absolutely not. The reason we can now say with certainty that they're a fan is because of the behaviour exhibited at the crime scenes. Think back to what you learned at uni about the psychology of stalking..."

Sherlock walked into the station, the bones in his face sharp with tension. His eyes locked on Margaux as she continued working on her profile, a tall man standing beside her with his arms folded. John followed behind him, yet as soon as he reached his side, Sherlock was gone again, charging across the room.

He grabbed William by throat, slamming him back against the board with a loud crash.

"Tell me how!"

William struggled beneath Sherlock's strong grip, choking as his hand tightened around his neck.

"There were hundreds of things connecting those victims yet you, a rookie, found the answer! How!?"

"Stop! Sherlock, stop!" Margaux grabbed him by the arm, pulling hard until he finally let go.

She tore him away as William fell to his knees behind her. He was gasping for breath, spluttering in a mixture of pain and panic.

"How could you have just _known_?" Sherlock shouted to him as Margaux held his arms to keep him away.

"I d-didn't just know." William struggled to speak. "I worked it out–" He coughed.

"How!?"

"I..." he clambered to his feet. "Since... since this copycat thing, I started reading the blog–" he gasped, clutching his neck. "It was a hunch. A-a-an absolute fluke."

Sherlock growled. Margaux pushed him away.

"Sherlock! What the hell is wrong with you!?" She rushed over to William. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "I-I'm fine."

"Sherlock!" Greg's voice boomed. "In here. Now."

He stormed off towards the office.

"I'm so sorry," said Margaux as she looked over his neck. "He's never..."

"It's okay, he's stressed."

"It's no excuse. Are you sure you're alright?"

He nodded again.

"Go home, Will. Take the rest of the day off, I'll clear it with Lestrade for you."

"Really, I'm fine."

"Go. Please."

William picked up his bag and hurried out of the station, passing John on his way. John stood wide-eyed, staring across at Margaux as if completely bewildered. She shook her head at him, chewing the inside of her cheek before marching towards Greg's office.

"What are you playing at?" she hissed as she stepped through the door.

"I had to get a truthful response from him," Sherlock replied as he stood in the corner of the room.

"By traumatising the guy!?"

"It was the most effective method."

"Bullshit!" She began pacing back and forth, the anger filling up behind her eyes.

Sherlock huffed. "I just don't understand how he was able to make the connection between the poisoning and the perfumes yet I still can't see how he did it."

"Just because someone got to the answer before you, it doesn't give you the right to physically assault them, Sherlock! You're not the only person with a brain cell here!"

Greg rubbed his eyes. "Sherlock, what you just did was technically assault of a police officer. I could arrest you right now. I _should_ arrest you right now."

"Please, Greg, be my guest," said Margaux.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pushed his fingers against his temple, nursing a dull ache that was threatening to spread. 

"I don't think you'll want him locked up right now."

"Why?"

"Because I just had a call," Greg replied with a solemn tone. "Molly Hooper's just been admitted to hospital. Her symptoms are sounding eerily familiar."

*

Molly was sitting in a hospital bed with a drip attached to the back of her hand. In the chair beside her was Arthur, fiddling nervously with the edge of a crossword book as Sherlock stood at the end of the bed.

"I don't know, I just fainted," said Molly.

"Do you faint a lot?" asked Sherlock.

"No. Never have. But I've been feeling unwell the past few days, I even said to Arthur that maybe I should skip our walk this morning."

"I just feel so bad," said Arthur. "I convinced her to go."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and reached for the notes at the bottom of the bed. "Have you received scans?"

Molly nodded. "Had an MRI, all clear."

"Blood work – all fine," he said as he flicked through the notes. "No allergies, no conditions, no infections." He looked up at her. "Have they done a pregnancy test?"

"Sherlock!" Molly blushed.

"Ah yes here it is, it was negative."

Arthur leaned over to her. "Is he always this... intrusive?"

She nodded.

Sherlock reached out his hand. "Keys to your home, please."

"Why?"

"Molly, I'm trying to be nice by asking as opposed to just breaking in. Do you really want to test my patience by asking questions?"

She sighed. "They're in my bag."

...

Molly's home was neat and colourful, with mismatched cushions and shelves filled with trinkets. Sherlock stood in the hallway with his hands on his hips. He turned his head.

"John, find the perfume. Molly said she's only been feeling sick for the past couple of days so it's most likely new."

"Okay... what are you doing?"

"Looking for signs of a break-in. If she is a victim, then whoever poisoned her must have gotten in here at some point."

"Right." John nodded, taking a step towards the bedroom before backtracking. "Sherlock, what was that all about at the police station?"

"John please, I'm already going to get a scolding from my wife when I get home. I don't need one from you too."

"I'm not scolding you. I'm asking why."

"When someone is in a state of shock, that's when they're most likely to slip - show signs of truth."

"It was a bit extreme though..."

"The perfume, John."

John made his way to Molly's bedroom, his eyes immediately drawn to a frosted glass bottle on the dresser. He took an evidence bag from his back pocket and scooped up the perfume, suddenly noticing something glittery sitting in the bin. He bent down, carefully lifting the fancy packaging and holding it up in front of his face. Then he looked back down to the bin, at a scrunched-up piece of purple foiled paper.

"Sherlock," he said as he walked into the kitchen. "Look at this."

Sherlock was examining the window with a magnifying glass. He stood up straight and walked over to John, taking the piece of wrapping paper from him. He flipped it over, noticing a gift tag still attached.

'To Molly. All my love, Arthur.'

...

They stood outside the door to Molly's hospital room. Sherlock reached for the door handle, but John stopped him.

"Just don't... choke him," he whispered.

"Yes, yes, I'll be calm." Sherlock rolled his eyes before opening the door and stepping inside. He took the perfume and the gift tag out of his pocket and held them up. "Arthur, care to explain this?"

Arthur squinted at it for a moment. "Oh! Well, I got that for Molly for our six-month anniversary." He smiled.

Sherlock leaned in to John. "People don't actually celebrate that, do they?"

"Sherlock..." Molly gave him a chastising look.

He shook his head. "Arthur, this perfume is laced with poison from a plant commonly known as Fading Green. Ever heard of it?"

"Er... no. Should I? Wait, poison?"

"Yes, poison. Every time Molly sprayed it onto her skin, she was absorbing it into her bloodstream. Slowly killing herself."

"Killing myself!?" she sat up. "Am I going to die?"

"No, you're fine." He gave her a quick wink.

"H-how is that possible? The box was sealed when I bought it."

"Mm." Sherlock eyed him up and down.

*

London was warm in the summer sun, yet the atmosphere in 221B Baker Street was like a glacier cave. Margaux didn't look up at Sherlock as he walked through the door. Instead she remained still, sitting in an armchair with a book in her lap.

"Hi Daddy," said Vaughan as he sat painting at the living room table.

"Good afternoon, how was school?"

"Good. I didn't upset my teachers today."

"Excellent work."

He walked to his chair opposite Margaux and sat down slowly, crossing one leg over the other and curling his fingers around the armrests.

"Go on then," he said. "Give it to me."

Her eyes shot up, burning angrily beneath her heavy brow. "Give it to you?"

"Yes, I imagine there are some things you wish to get off your chest, some names you'd like to call me..."

She snapped the book shut. "Are you really being _arrogant_ right now? After what you did today?"

"Are you two fighting?" asked Vaughan.

"No, love," she replied calmly.

"Really?"

"Vaughan, why don't you go downstairs and visit Mrs Hudson?"

"So you can keep fighting?"

"I told you, we're not fighting."

Vaughan looked at his parents, his round blue eyes glaring at them as if completely unconvinced. He hopped down from the chair and reluctantly made his way downstairs.

Margaux turned her attention back to Sherlock. "What you did today was horrible. And just so you know, whoever this copycat is, you're giving them exactly what they want by acting like this."

"What do you expect, Margaux? This case has infuriated me from the second I started working on it."

"So, walking into a police station and assaulting someone, that's acceptable?"

"I saw him there today and I just snapped–"

"Right. So, if I piss you off on the wrong day am I going to find your hands around _my_ throat too?"

"No. Absolutely not. Never! How could you even question that?"

"Well if you can do it to a young guy just trying to do his job..."

"I couldn't see how it was done! I couldn't fathom how I was blind to it yet this little trainee-CSI plucked the answer from thin air."

"And that gave you the right to attack him?"

"I... No."

"He was trying to help, and he _did_ help. Massively. You should be thanking him."

Sherlock rubbed his eyes.

Margaux leaned forward. "You scared me today, Sherlock."

"I _scared_ you?"

"Yes, you did. I know you're no saint, but I've never felt unsafe around you before. I don't ever want to feel that way again."

He sighed. "I'm sorry."

"It's not me you need to apol–"

"No, it is. I scared the woman I love to the point where she had to question whether I would ever raise a hand to her. That's warranting of a 'sorry', wouldn't you say?"

"That was quite an aggressive apology."

He glared up at her slowly.

She rested her cheek on her fist. "You made a bad judgement today. Really bad. But I also know you've gone your whole life having your bad behaviour enabled and justified by others, simply because you're _Sherlock Holmes_ and that's 'just the way Sherlock is'. Well I'm not going to accept that."

He scoffed. "I'm sorry, you're not going to _accept_ it?"

"No. I'm not. This is the reality of marriage, Sherlock. Compromise. I don't play music while you work, you don't keep hazardous chemicals in the fridge. I let you turn our living room walls into evidence boards, you refrain from choking my work colleagues; it's all about give and take."

He looked at her for a moment as she sat there; so soft and delicate, yet somehow terrifying at the same time.

"Have we stopped fighting now?" he finally asked.

"We weren't fighting, we were having a heated discussion."

"You're fighting with me right now about whether we were fighting."

She rolled her eyes. "I could actually fight with you, if you'd really like me to."

"No thanks."

She let out a small laugh before standing up and walking to the kitchen. "So, how's Molly?"

"She'll be out of hospital by tomorrow."

"Oh good."

"Mm."

"What is it?" She turned to look at him, placing a hand on her hip.

"This Arthur character..."

"Oh god, Sherlock, please don't say you think he did something to her."

"Nine victims and Molly is the only one who received her perfume as a gift. Does that not strike you as odd?"

"Not if he bought it from the same place..."

Sherlock placed his palms together, pressing his lips against the tips of his fingers. He sat quietly for a while as Margaux stood making Vaughan's dinner. She turned to speak to him, but her voice was muffled, as if they were separated by a thick pane of glass.

"Sherlock..." she repeated. "Sherlock?"

His eyes grew wide, his mouth opening slightly as his back straightened in his chair. "That's it," he finally said. "They were all bought from different places at different times which is why I didn't see the correlation before. Excluding Molly." He stood up excitedly, swiping his hand as if erasing her name from the air. "The other eight were all purchased in the same way – online. Meaning the copycat had access to their order histories, their addresses, their names." He held up his hands, each victim's information now floating in front of his face. "These women were not chosen at random. They've been used to send a message to me."

"Why?"

"Ssssh," he batted his hand at her, stopping suddenly and turning around. "Sorry. I love you."

"Mm. Love you too." She raised an eyebrow and returned to the kitchen.

He closed his eyes, retreating quickly into his mind palace where pieces of information joined together like spider webs. He plucked the eight victims from the web one by one, starting with their addresses; plotting them on a map to see if they spelled anything out – nothing. Next, he took their ages and dates of birth, running the numbers through every codebreaker he had stored away in his mind – still nothing. Finally, he took their names; Ellen, Billie, Rebecca, Pippa, Susan, Tina, Emily and Elizabeth, scrambling them to form anagrams, sentences, clues and riddles. But nothing made sense. Then suddenly, he realised his mistake. He looked up at Molly's name hovering alone and swiped it back over into the list, and as eight became nine, it finally clicked.

Susan

Emily

Pippa

Tina

Ellen

Molly

Billie

Elizabeth

Rebecca

He opened his eyes, returning to Baker Street with a quiet gasp. "September," he said.

"September?" asked Margaux.

"The victims' initials. They spell September. I didn't see it sooner because I wasn't factoring Molly into the equation."

"Well what does it mean?"

"It means something's coming."

"In September? That's four months from now."

"So it's going to be something significant."

"Surely, you're not just going to sit around for four months and wait for this lunatic to do something else?"

"That's exactly what I'm going to do."

"Wh–" Margaux stopped herself as Vaughan walked into the room. Her look of concern moulding into a pleasant smile. "Hi, love. Go and sit down, I'll bring your dinner over."

He looked at her, then at his father. "Are you happy again?"

"Elated," said Sherlock as he grabbed him and lifted him into the air. "I found a new clue."

Vaughan giggled and squealed as he twirled him around.

*

The late evening sky was still blue, the breeze still warm as it carried clouds of pollen through the air. Margaux was sitting on the couch watching television while Vaughan slept in her arms like a baby.

Sherlock walked into the flat, softening his footsteps when he noticed his son sleeping.

"Did you speak to Mycroft?" Margaux whispered.

He nodded. "I informed him that something is coming in September. He asked me what, I said I don't know and he kicked me out."

"Oh, lovely."

"He'll be working on it, though. He knows better than to ignore me when it comes to things like this."

Margaux shifted in her seat, lifting Vaughan as he began to slip out of her arms. She smiled. "He hasn't slept on me like this since he was tiny."

"Do you miss it?"

"I do. I mean, I love him the way he is now. But sometimes I do wish he could be a baby again."

"We could just make another one," Sherlock shrugged as he sat down.

"You make it sound so easy." She laughed quietly, but as she looked over at him, her smile melted away. "Maybe we should just wait and talk about it when all of this is over."

"Why?"

"Because we can't bring another child into this. Not while your mind is elsewhere."

"My attention may get temporarily stolen, but my mind is always here. With you and Vaughan."

"Sherlock, this isn't temporary. It's consuming you. We couldn't have a baby knowing there's someone out there trying to hurt us. I can't be pregnant and worrying every day that my husband is going to come and physically assault one of my colleagues."

"That was once. I apologised."

Margaux gave him a cynical glare. "Sherlock, I just... I worry about you. I worry that having another child sounds good to you in theory, but in practice–"

"I'd be terrible?"

"Not terrible. You're a good dad, you are. But you weren't there for the first bit: the blood, the stitches, the crying. So much crying. And that was just me. You didn't feel the overwhelming terror of being responsible for this tiny, squishy helpless thing. Like... Imagine being the most exhausted you've ever been, then imagine having to deal with a baby screaming, crying, refusing to sleep, sleeping at the wrong time. Imagine being covered in sick and poo and milk, getting a bad back from constantly picking them up and putting them down, having to sterilise everything, clean everything, survive on a diet of toast and coffee because you don't have time for yourself anymore. Then on top of that, imagine the worry –the relentless worry that they're going to choke, or catch a disease or just stop breathing for absolutely no reason - because babies do that - or that you're going to drop them, or not wake up when they cry, or–"

"You're trying to put me off and it's not working."

She let out a sigh.

"Margaux, I've already told you if you're not ready then I am okay with that."

"But you're also pressing the matter because you know I've been considering it ever since you brought it up on the honeymoon..."

"What can I say? I'm a master of deduction."

She looked down at Vaughan sleeping in her arms. "I don't think anyone can ever be ready. I wasn't even ready for him."

"And look, you've kept him alive for four, almost five years."

She shook her head with a slight smile. "I mean, maybe we could- maybe _I_ could... stop taking my pill. See what happens..."

"Would calling it 'seeing what happens' as opposed to 'trying to conceive' make it less intimidating?"

"Just for now."

"Okay."

"But I'm trusting you, Sherlock. I swear to god if I get pregnant and you freak out and fake your own death again, I will find you."

He laughed.

"And you promise me," she continued. "No matter where this case takes you, your family comes first."

"Always."


	10. Like Father

A feather duster slid across the window ledge, brushing a cloud of glittering dust into the air. Mrs Hudson danced around her flat while she cleaned as her earphones played a mix of Elvis and The Beatles. She moved from the window ledge to the kitchen, dusting to the rhythm of the music and swaying from side to side as she stood on her tiptoes to reach the tops of the cabinets. After the dusting, she picked up a cloth, looking around for the bottle of cleaning spray. It wasn't where she left it. She blew out a gust of air and placed her hands on her hips. 

"I could've sworn I…" 

She pottered back and forth searching for the bottle, checking the drawers and making her way along the kitchen until she came to the cupboard under the sink. She opened it, jumping back and letting out a terrified scream as she laid eyes on Vaughan who was sat inside. He looked up at her, completely perplexed by her frightened reaction.

"Vaughan!" She clutched her chest, panting heavily as she removed her earphones. "What are you doing in there!?"

*

Margaux sat cross-legged on the bed with her laptop in front of her. Each time she leant over to type her hair would fall into her face, causing her to huff and brush it back with her fingers. She had been putting off a haircut, the dark, fluffy waves now falling to the middle of her back.

The door opened but she didn't look up from her computer. Instead, she smiled when she heard his voice.

"This is a strange-looking office," said Sherlock as he stood in the doorway of the bedroom.

"I _would_ work from the living room table if it weren't covered in your detective stuff..."

"My detective 'stuff'?"

"Mhm. Then I thought I'd sit at the kitchen table instead, but couldn't seem to find a place for my things amongst all the chemistry equipment. So, bed it is."

His face broke into a slight smile. He walked around the bed climbed on to sit beside her. She turned to look at him, noticing his eyes flitting towards the laptop screen.

"Stop spying." She laughed. "If I need your help, I'll ask for it."

"Actually, I have my own work to be getting on with. John and I are investigating a lead for a case. I'm meeting him at the client's house at twelve."

He checked his watch and glanced at her, watching as she brushed the hair out of her face and flicked it off her shoulders. Impulsively, he leaned in and lay a kiss on her neck, catching her off guard.

"Are you feeling alright?" she joked, her eyes remaining on her laptop.

"I feel fine." He mumbled against her skin before lifting his head. "What about you? I notice your body temperature has increased."

"Mm, I wonder why." She laughed as she continued working.

Sherlock moved closer, pushing her shirt off her shoulders and laying kisses there too. Margaux tilted her head back and closed her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy it for just a moment.

"Don't you have to meet John at the client's place?"

"I do. But the journey from John's house to the client's is two and a half times longer than the journey from here. He left eleven minutes ago which means I have to leave in around sixteen minutes to arrive at the same time as him." He moved forward, pushing her back towards the headboard. She smiled and curved her hands around the back of his neck. "Sixteen minutes is a perfectly acceptable amount of time for this," he continued. "Granted, it won't be my best work, but I've brought you to climax in less time before so–"

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"Bloody hell, you really have a way with words."

"Sorry, I just needed to be quick about it."

"Why?"

"Because your body temperature is raised. It's a sign that you could be ovul–"

"Oh god." She sat up and fixed her shirt back on. "Sherlock, love, I appreciate the extensive research you've done, really. But checking my temperature and fitting me into your schedule for quickies; that sort of sucks the fun out of it, don't you think?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, suddenly interrupted by the sound of footsteps angrily marching down the hall. They both turned as the door flew open, watching as Mrs Hudson ushered Vaughan into the bedroom.

"Your son was hiding in my kitchen cupboard again," she said.

Margaux sighed, looking down at Vaughan and shaking her head.

"What for this time?" Sherlock asked the boy casually.

Before he could reply, Mrs Hudson held up a bottle of cleaning liquid in one hand and a Barbie in the other; the doll's face had been wiped clean, with flesh-coloured ridges where the features had once been.

"I wasn't being bad!" Vaughan cried. "I just wanted to draw a new face."

Margaux closed her eyes and inhaled slowly.

*

Rodger Lake was an eccentric man. Tall yet hunched, well-spoken yet jittery. His hair was a blend of charcoal grey and dark brown, flopping forward into his eyes as a pair of gold half-moon spectacles adorned his large nose. He straightened his elbow-padded blazer and opened the front door, his brows coming together over wide eyes as he looked down at the small, dark-haired boy standing between two men.

"Mr Lake, I hope you don't mind that my son has joined us," said Sherlock as he glanced down the hall into the house.

"N-no, not at all, Mr Holmes. Please do come in." He extended his arm for a handshake, which Sherlock ignored as he stepped inside.

"Hello again." John smiled politely, shaking his hand on behalf of them both.

Rodger followed them down the hall, noticing the strange detective stopping to look at the pictures hanging in frames on the wall.

"When I taught at Cambridge, I'd always hold my classes outside in the summer." 

Sherlock regarded the photograph of a younger Mr Lake and a group of students, sitting in the grass with books-in-hand. "Mm. Where's the boiler?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Your home has central heating, which means you have a boiler. Where is it?"

"Er, yes I do... It's upstairs. The cupboard on the right."

Sherlock disappeared up the stairs, leaving John, Vaughan and Rodger standing in the hall.

"He'll be checking for defects," said John. "To explain the sounds you've been hearing..."

"Well he won't find any. As I said when I first came to you, I've had all the checks; plumbers, handymen, electricians, none of them could find anything. I'm telling you, Dr Watson, it has to be a ghost."

Vaughan looked up at the man with a raised eyebrow. "My daddy said ghosts aren't real."

"Well I thought so too, young lad. But I can't find any other explanation."

"Sherlock will." John nodded with a smile.

Upstairs was cluttered and kitschy, with mismatched furniture and boxes overflowing with books and paper. Sherlock kicked the boiler a few times before closing the cupboard door and making his way down the landing. He had known from the moment Rodger came to him that it was not a haunting. But the real cause of the strange sounds and misplaced items was still a mystery; one that he couldn't help but try to solve.

He crouched down, sifting through the decades-worth of writing, teaching and studying, scanning each piece of paper with his eyes and filing it away in his mind. He opened another box which was packed tight with leather-bound journals, picking them up and fanning his finger across the crisp pages. 

John sat in the living room holding a cup of tea. He listened carefully as Rodger relayed every single paranormal experience he'd ever had, being sure to keep a straight face.

Suddenly, Sherlock barged into the room, his movements smooth yet unceremonious. "Mr Lake, you are in grave danger."

Rodger sat up straight. "So, you believe I'm being haunted..."

"Of course not."

"W... W-well what is it then?"

"You failed to mention in our first meeting at Baker Street that you are in a relationship with an ex-student."

"Well," he shifted uncomfortable. "Because it's irrelevant. I know there's a rather large age difference, but Tom and I, we didn't become romantically involved until after he left university."

"Actually, it is entirely relevant." Sherlock held up one of the leather journals. "This Tom character is referenced at least twice-a-page; you've documented everything, from the first time he set foot in your classroom to just yesterday when he made you a cup of tea and suggested going on a weekend away."

"Mr Holmes, those are private!"

"In fact, your diligent documentation of your mundane life is, ironically, what has saved it."

"Saved? I don't–"

"Mr Lake, have you ever heard of the term 'gaslighting'? I hadn't either but my wife's a forensic psychologist and she's always coming out with these phrases so I make it a point to–"

"Sherlock..." John interrupted, gesturing to Rodger who appeared to be on the verge of a panic attack.

"Right, yes, sorry. As I was saying: gaslighting. It's a form of psychological manipulation in which one person covertly and purposely makes another person feel as though they are insane. It's usually done over a period of time; hiding things so they think their memory is bad, denying things that they know absolutely happened, staging things and then pretending you're imagining it."

"Wait, you think Tom is _staging_ these supernatural occurrences? The sounds in the kitchen, the smashed ornaments, the–"

"I think he's trying to make it appear as though you're losing your marbles, and he's succeeding."

"Sherlock," said John again, this time through gritted teeth.

Sherlock huffed and continued. "He is driving you mad to the point where you become mad."

"But what would that achieve?" Rodger shook his head, his eyes welling with tears.

"You can make a mad person do a lot of things, mainly leaving everything to you in their will. Which I also found a copy of – I see you've recently edited it – how nice for Tom that he'll get your house, car, money _and_ holiday home when you die." He smiled, a wide insincere smile that creased the corners of his mouth. "And thanks to your journals, we're able to identify exactly when the gaslighting started."

"W-w-w-what do I do? I can't believe this, I..."

"Change your will and kick him out. Goodbye!"

Sherlock made his way towards the door as Rodger chased behind.

"Wait! Mr Holmes, you can't just... How do I know you're correct? I can't end my relationship based on an assumption."

"An assumption." Sherlock laughed. "Okay, why don't you call Tom and ask him to come home. Say I want to _chat._ I'm sure a confession would erase your doubts."

"Not if you beat it out of him," John quipped from the living room doorway.

"I will do my best to keep my hands to myself."

"Right, okay, yes, I'll call him, erm..." Rodger looked around for a moment, his large nose turning red. "Mr Holmes, where is your son?"

"Oh, not to worry, he'll be in your kitchen cupboard."

"What?"

"Oh, it's his new 'thing'." Sherlock rolled his eyes before making his way into the kitchen. "Vaughan, come on. Out."

There was no answer.

"Vaughan..." His heart began to thud, rattling in his chest. He began to wonder how Margaux would decide to kill him when she found out he had lost their son. "Vaughan!"

He began to hear a whimpering. He stilled his breath, listening closely as he followed the sound, until eventually, he found him.

Vaughan looked up at him from his hiding spot in the corner of the pantry. He was crying, hugging his knees to his chest.

"What's the matter, son?"

"I don't want to tell you."

Sherlock sighed and crouched down. "Vaughan, I can't bring you on cases if they're going to upset you."

"No! I'm not upset because of that. I'm upset because I broke the man's kitchen."

"What do you mean?"

"I was in his cupboard."

"Of course you were."

"And I accidentally broke something off and the battery fell out."

Sherlock gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder before something made him stop. "What do you mean the battery fell out? Fell out of what?"

"The cupboard that I broke." 

"Show me."

He took his son's hand, allowing him to lead him to the row of cabinets. Vaughan pointed to one with a broken hinge and Sherlock opened it. He could see the damage; a piece of wood, broken and splintered as it came away from the wall inside. Beside it, a very small wireless speaker. Sherlock picked it up and looked at Vaughan.

"What's the bet that this is the source of Mr Lake's spooky noises?"

*

Sherlock and John walked through London Town looking more than ever like a married couple, with wedding bands wrapped around their fourth fingers and two children toddling at their feet. Sherlock was grinning proudly as John talked obliviously about the babysitter they had picked Rosie up from. He realised his friend wasn't listening and stopped walking.

"Sherlock…"

"Hm?"

"You didn't hear a word of what I just said, did you?" 

"I was too busy thinking about how much of a genius my son is."

John rolled his eyes. "You know he didn't solve the case on purpose. "He found that speaker by accident. I'm not saying he's not clever, but it's a bit presumptuous to say you've passed on some sort of 'detective gene'." 

Vaughan and Rosie began chasing each other in a circle around the two men. 

Sherlock shrugged. "It'll be easier to measure whether his intelligence is genetic or not once I have another one to compare it to."

"Another one?"

"Yes. Which reminds me; you're a doctor, do you think you could get some of those ovulation tester things?"

"Why? Trying to track your menstrual cycle?"

"You're hilarious. They're for Margaux."

"Why?"

"We are trying to conceive."

John spluttered on his own saliva. "What? You're…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued walking. 

John hurried at his side, the two children in tow. "Well, do you think that's wise? With everything going on with the copyc-"

"John, I'm Sherlock Holmes. Something is always 'going on'. if not this then it would just be something else. With that logic, there'd never be an appropriate time."

"So, what, you'll be running around London solving crimes with a baby in a pram?" 

"Don't be ridiculous. I'll get one of those sling things you had for Rosie." 

"Oh I'm sure Margaux would be thrilled with that."

"Absolutely." 

John began to smile. "You know, if you'd have told me when I met you that one day you'd be married with a kid and trying for another, I'd have eaten my hat."

"You don't wear hats."

"It's an expression."

They walked for a while, turning the corner onto a busy high street."

"I could pull off a hat," said John. 

"Hm? Oh yes, of course you could." 

"I could."

They stepped into a cafe, making their way to the counter when a familiar face smiled at them from the queue. 

"Hello Shuttlecock." 

Sherlock groaned. "I'll find us a table."

John grumbled at him before turning back around. "Rose, hi. How are you?"

"I'm okay, John Watson. You?"

"Yeah... Never a dull moment." He gestured to Sherlock as he walked away with the children.

Rose laughed. "You look flustered. On a case, are you?"

"Oh no, it's not that." He stepped closer, speaking quietly. "Has Margaux mentioned anything to you, about... them... having another..."

"Oh, yeah." She chuckled. "Mad, isn't it."

"Just a bit."

They laughed.

"You know, as the two best friends, we should probably convene some time; get together and share notes on all their stupid decisions," she joked.

"We'd be talking for hours."

The queue moved up. Rose turned to the barista as he handed her a cup of coffee. She looked back at John with a smile.

"Anyway, John Watson, tell Shuttlecock I said bye."

"Will do," he laughed.

After a few minutes, John approached the table with a tray of drinks. Sherlock took a mug and assessed him as he sat down.

"What?" said John, his brow furrowed.

"You don't... fancy her, do you?"

"Who? Rose?" he scoffed. "Sherlock, my daughter's called _Rosie_ ; how confusing would that be."

"Ah but see, you didn't actually say no."

John stammered for a moment before forcing out a quiet 'no'.

Sherlock leaned back slightly in his chair, his pale blue eyes narrowing as he looked at him.

"Will you stop." John shook his head and took a sip of his coffee, the hot liquid burning the roof of his mouth.

*

Margaux sat with her legs up on the couch as she rolled her head back and forth, feeling the tension sitting in the space between her shoulder blades. She closed her laptop and rested her forehead against it. She had written so many reports that when she closed her eyes, she could see the lines of text glowing behind her eyelids. The next time they asked her to take on a trainee, she would absolutely say no.

Footsteps shook the staircase, she lifted her head and smiled as Vaughan hurried towards her with his arms extended. He jumped onto her as she pulled him into a hug, squeezing him tight and lifting her knees up to hold him in place.

"How was your day?" she asked enthusiastically.

"I solved a case!"

"You did? Wow!" She hugged him again, her eyes darting towards Sherlock who had thrown himself down in his armchair.

"Don't give me that look, I dislike that look," he said.

"I thought you were just meeting with the client," she replied.

"We were. But then the answers revealed themselves... inside Mr Lake's kitchen cupboard. Hence why _Vaughan_ solved it."

"Ah," she nodded, before cupping her son's round face in her hands. "What is this sudden obsession with small spaces?"

He shrugged. "Can I go and play?"

"Of course." She helped him climb down and watched as he rushed towards the hall. "No hiding!"

"Okay!" he shouted as he climbed the stairs to his room.

Margaux sat upright and crossed her legs. She patted the empty space on the couch, gesturing for Sherlock to sit beside her. He stood up and made his way over, his eyes never leaving hers.

"What's wrong with your face?" he asked as he sat down.

"Excuse you, _darling._ I'm just knackered; I've taken on way too much work." She leaned forward, resting her forehead on his shoulder.

"Hm, that explains why you haven't gotten angry with me for involving Vaughan in my case. Should I expect an argument later?"

"No it's fine, I'm not angry."

"But why? This is what we do; I take Vaughan on cases, you go ballistic when we get home. It's our thing."

"It's not 'our thing'," she laughed, before lifting her head to look at him. "I've decided to stop getting so worked up over it; if you want to take him along on cases then you can."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yeah." She smiled. "From now on it can be _your_ job to attend the parents' evenings and explain why your son is trying to perform autopsies on the other children..."

Sherlock scoffed. "He's not _that_ bad."

"Not yet."

He lifted his arm, allowing her to move closer. She shuffled forward and curled into him, finally feeling the tension melting away.


	11. Change

August was a battle of searing sun and humid thunderstorms. With long days and warm, uncomfortable nights that made summer feel like it would never end.

Sherlock unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt and rolled up his sleeves as he wandered towards the mantelpiece.

"Good morning, Mrs Hudson," he said calmly as he picked up a pile of letters.

"Morning, dear. I've left your letters up there and some tea on the side. Oh, and I did your windows."

He looked over as the sun shone through the clear, spotless glass and gave a polite nod. "Thank you."

She smiled and left the flat without another word.

Sherlock sat down in his armchair as he sifted through the letters; handwritten, requesting his help, boring. He glanced up as Margaux emerged into the kitchen. She was frowning as she tucked her shirt into her trousers.

"Good morning," he said.

"What's that flowery smell?"

"Mrs Hudson just cleaned the windows."

"It's giving me a headache," she grimaced.

Sherlock put down the letters and clasped his fingers together. "I sense a bad mood."

Margaux shook her head. "I'm fine."

He watched as she carried a bowl of cereal to the living room table, at the milk splashing over the edge as she sat down.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asked.

She didn't answer, instead she sat quietly, shovelling spoonfuls of cereal into her mouth.

"I take it you're running late for work again?" He waited for her to answer. "Hello?"

"Hm, oh, yeah," she replied distractedly.

He turned to look at her. "Are you actually listening to me?"

"Mhm. Sounds great."

He stood up and made his way to the table, taking a seat opposite her. "Margaux, I think you might be pregnant."

She stopped, her eyes rising slowly to meet his gaze. "Are you just saying that to get my attention?"

"Yes. But also, I think you are."

She put down her spoon and sighed, brushing her hair out her face with her hands. "Love, as entertaining as I find the 'human pregnancy test' thing, I don't have time for this right now."

"This is the fourth day in a row you've woken up late. You're tired, distracted, irritable and you've developed a sudden aversion to the scent of Mrs Hudson's glass cleaner. Also, you're..." his eyes began to scan her face, moving down to her body.

"If you're about to tell me I've gained weight, I'd highly suggest you reconsider."

"Would I ever say such a thing?"

"Mm." She raised an eyebrow.

He sat calmly, watching as she stood up, put on her shoes and began gathering her things.

She glanced up at him, laughing slightly. "Stop looking at me like that."

"I understand it's rather improbable. Research suggests it can take up to a year to conceive–"

"Oh, well maybe you're just _that good_ ," she replied sarcastically.

"Margaux..."

"Okay, fine. Next time I'm passing a shop, I'll pick up a test." She hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and walked around the table, cupping his face in her hands and kissing him.

"Well, when will that be?" he asked.

"I don't know, Sherlock. I'm on my way to interrogate a serial sexual predator; I've got a lot going on today. It'll just have to wait."

"It'll have to wait?" His voice raised as he stood up, watching her walk out of the flat.

"What'll have to wait?" asked John as he appeared in the doorway.

*

It was proving to be a slow client day, with just a handful of uninteresting cases walking out as quickly as they had walked in. By late afternoon, Sherlock and John were lounging around the flat like a pair of bored teenagers; feet up on the table, heads buried in phones and newspapers.

Vaughan sat on the floor playing patiently with Rosie. Her speech was quick and disjointed, but somehow, he understood every word.

"Uncle John, Rosie wants to keep this," he said, tugging on the leg of John's trousers.

John put his newspaper down and sat upright, taking his feet down from the table and looking at the doll in his hands; the long blonde hair was cut short and spikey, with colourful marker pen tattoos scrawled over its arms, legs and face. He grimaced.

"Aw that's alright, Vee. You keep hold of it."

"Don't you like it?"

"It's... Yeah, of course I like it."

"Then let her keep it."

John could have sworn he saw a smirk on Vaughan's face, as if he knew he had called his bluff.

"I..." John stammered before leaning in, bringing their faces close together. "Why are you even here?"

"It's the summer holidays, I'm always here."

Sherlock chucked from his armchair, his eyes never leaving his phone.

"You know, if the detective thing doesn't work out for you, you'd make a very slick salesman," said John as he reluctantly took the doll and put it in Rosie's bag.

Vaughan smiled and sat back down on the floor as John picked up the newspaper.

"John you've been staring at the same page for the past thirty minutes," said Sherlock. "Perhaps you would appreciate something more entertaining; one of the children's storybooks?"

" _Ha ha_." He folded the paper and fanned himself with it as he took out his phone instead. "I hate days like this, they're so..."

"Finish your sentences, John." Sherlock glanced over at him.

"S-sorry, I just..."

"Still not a full sentence."

"Sherlock, just stop a minute. Have you seen this?" He got up and made his way over, handing him the phone.

He looked at it, narrowing his eyes for a moment. "Is that..."

"Now who's not finishing their sentences?"

On the screen was a social media page. John's personal page, he noticed, from the small profile picture in the corner. At the top of the page was a photograph; Molly and Arthur, smiling with their faces squashed together. Her hand on his face, his arm around her shoulder. Sherlock read over the caption several times, the words never quite sitting right in his head.

_Molly Hooper: I said yes!_

He looked at the photograph again. This time, his eyes zoomed in on the engagement ring on her finger, the smudge of her lipstick on his cheek.

"We should probably call her," said John. "Say congrats."

"She's known the man five minutes."

"Actually, they've been together about nine or ten months. There's nothing wrong with that." John took his phone back and sat down in his armchair. "Waiting half a decade just to tell a girl you like her, now _that's_ not normal."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John laughed, watching as Sherlock absentmindedly twisted the wedding ring on his finger. He had noticed it happened whenever he was thinking too much, when he was agitated or frustrated. In those moments, he noticed how his friend would instinctively seek comfort by playing with his wedding ring, turning it methodically until he found clarity again.

"Tell you what, I'll text her," said John. "I'll say you send your best wishes – saves you saying something rude and upsetting her."

"I wouldn't be rude. I just haven't drawn my final conclusion on the man yet. What's his name? Alfred?"

"Arthur."

"Mm."

*

Sherlock woke with his cheek resting on his son's head. He sat up, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He was on the edge of Vaughan's bed with his arm around him as he slept soundly. He lifted his hips and slid his phone from the back pocket of his trousers. It was 2am. He grumbled before leaving the room quietly and closing the door behind him. He crept down the creaky stairs and headed straight for the bedroom.

The bed was empty; still made from the morning, and a gentle breeze poured through the slightly open window. He unbuttoned his shirt as he stood beside it, thankful for the cool air brushing against his clammy skin. As he took off his shirt, the door opened slowly, letting a sliver of warm light into the dark bedroom.

"Hi," said Margaux, her voice croaky and tired.

"Hi."

"Did you wait up for me?"

"Yes..."

She raised an eyebrow and stepped towards him.

He sighed. "I fell asleep in Vaughan's room."

She laughed, melting sleepily into his arms.

He rested his chin on her forehead. "How did the interrogation go?"

"Thirteen hours," she groaned. "Thirteen straight hours, and the guy spoke in the third person the whole time." She looked up at him with heavy eyes, so tired she could barely stand without holding onto him. "I'm sorry I'm so late."

"It's okay. Sherlock understands..."

She giggled. "That was funny, well done."

"Thank you." He leaned back, brushing the hair out of her face.

"Well come on then," she said. "Let's do this before I fall asleep."

"Do what?"

"There's a test in my bag..."

His body stiffened and his eyes glazed over, just for a moment, but it was long enough for Margaux to notice.

"Oh, don't go all 'Sherlock' on me now; you're the one that put the idea in my head."

"Of course not. I'll meet you in there."

She had taken root on the bathroom floor, savouring the feeling of the cold tiles against the backs of her thighs. Her head felt heavy and her muscles ached, as if exhaustion were a thick moss growing on her bones. There was a gentle tap against the door before it opened. Sherlock stepped inside, looking down at her through his dark curls.

"Where are your trousers?" he asked.

"I was hot." She gestured to a pair of dark green cords draped over the edge of the bath. "Where's your shirt?"

"I didn't think there was much point in putting it back on."

Her eyes followed him as he lowered himself to the floor beside her.

"Have you done it?" he asked.

"Yeah. I'm just waiting for the-" a soft, high-pitched beeping interrupted her. "I was waiting for that," she finished. "I bought one of those fancy ones that actually says the word 'pregnant'."

"What does it say if you're not pregnant?"

"Not pregnant..."

"Ah."

Margaux waited for a moment, staring at the test from across the small room.

"You know one of us has to look..." she whispered.

"Unless it has an audio function."

She laughed, giving his arm a weak shove. "Go on then."

"Me?"

"Please?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and climbed to his feet. He was across the room in one stride, taking a deep breath before glancing down at the test.

"Why did you put it upside down?" he huffed.

"I don't know, the blank screen was driving me crazy." She sat up straighter and crossed her legs. "Well...?"

He picked it up, holding it so the screen continued to face the ground. He wondered if this was what anxiety felt like – not panic, or nerves – pure anxiety. The kind that made the air evaporate from your lungs, that made your insides coil and flutter at the same time. He had convinced her that he was ready. Yet suddenly, he didn't feel ready anymore. He looked down at his wife as she sat cross-legged on the floor, chewing her nail and staring at him with wide, irritated eyes. Then he looked back down to the test in his hand.

He inhaled, forcing the air to the very bottom of his chest, and flipped it over.

*

"Be good," Margaux whispered to Vaughan as they approached the restaurant doors. "Both of you," she added, looking up at her husband.

"I'll try," he replied dryly, pushing the door open and letting his family inside.

They stepped into the restaurant, taking a simultaneous deep breath as they laid eyes on a room full of noisy, cheerful people. Margaux took Sherlock's hand, unsure which one of them she was trying to comfort. She reached down for Vaughan, suddenly noticing he had already ran off towards the party. Sherlock gave her hand a gentle squeeze as they followed behind.

Molly was standing with a glass of champagne, the rim smudged with her vibrant pink lipstick. She felt a tap on her shoulder and turned, smiling and opening her arms.

"Congratulations!" said Margaux as they hugged. "I'm so happy for you."

"Thank you so much. I can't quite believe it."

"Why didn't you have a party for the last fiancé?" asked Sherlock as he stood with his hands behind his back.

Margaux elbowed him in the side.

Molly laughed politely. "I suppose it just didn't feel right last time."

"There they are!" Arthur chirped as he appeared at Molly's side. "So glad you could come!" He was beaming, holding onto his new fiancée as if she were the most precious thing he had ever seen.

"Why? You barely know us," said Sherlock, his mouth pressing into a line. "For all you know, we could just be here for the free booze."

"Do I have to elbow you again?" said Margaux through gritted teeth.

"Oh, don't worry, I can take the banter," Arthur laughed kindly. "So, Sherlo..." before he could finish, Sherlock had wandered off.

"I'm so sorry," said Margaux. "He's really not good with new people – _any_ people, really. I swear he has a sweet side, otherwise I wouldn't have married him." She forced a laugh before hurrying off to catch up with him.

He had taken a seat beside Mrs Hudson and Greg Lestrade as Vaughan and Rosie chased each other around the room. Across the table sat John, deep in conversation with Rose. Margaux pulled up a chair beside Sherlock. "Literally two minutes ago, I asked you to be good..." She trailed off, her brow furrowing as she noticed the way he was sitting; leaned back, arms folded across his chest, and a smirk on his face. She followed his line of sight across the table.

She cocked her head. "Rose! I didn't know you were coming..."

"Oh, yeah it was a last-minute thing," she replied awkwardly.

"Really? That's funn– Wait, hang on, you don't know Molly well enough for her to have invited you." Her eyes darted between her best friend and John. "Are you here _together_!?"

"I knew it," said Sherlock.

"We're not _together_..." said John, trying to keep his voice down. "She's... accompanying me to a party where I would otherwise have been by myself."

"Oh thanks, John," said Mrs Hudson. "Clearly I'm just a part of the furniture."

"Margs, we're just getting to know each other," Rose shrugged with a smile.

"I… Getting to know each other? You still call him by his full name!"

Sherlock placed his hand on the small of Margaux's back, gesturing for her to relax into her chair. As she leaned back, he leaned in, speaking quietly.

"Be good."

She glared at him as he thoroughly enjoyed himself – a gentle reminder of the high-functioning sociopath that still resided behind his eyes. 

...

Knives clinked against glasses as the music lowered to a hum. Everyone turned in their chairs to face Molly and Arthur as they stood in the middle of the room.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming," Molly began shyly. "It's been so lovely seeing you all here and being able to celebrate with you."

She glanced around the room with a smile, before noticing Sherlock. He was sat with his eyes glued to his phone screen. Ignoring her. She watched as Margaux's elbow found his side again. He put the phone away and looked up reluctantly.

"Honestly," Arthur began. "We've only been engaged for a week, but it really has been the best week of my life."

He wrapped his arm around her waist, looking at Molly in awe. She placed her hand lovingly on his chest, her smile fading as she caught a glimpse of Sherlock rolling his eyes.

"I'm so lucky," Arthur continued obliviously. "I can't wait to marry this woman!"

The room burst into cheers and applause. Margaux raised her glass and cheered before turning to Sherlock who was sitting unamused at her side.

"Raise a glass, will you," she said.

"After our wedding, I promised myself I'd never toast to anything again."

"Raise your bloody glass."

"How can I raise my glass to a man I don't trust?"

Sherlock noticed a figure moving swiftly across the room. He looked up to see Molly hurrying for the exit. Margaux took his jaw in her hand, bringing his face close to hers.

"She loves him," she said. "Just like I love you. And _you're_ not exactly the most saint-like man, are you?"

He sighed. "I'll go and talk to her."

She gave him a quick kiss. "Be-"

"Good. I know."

"No, be nice."

...

As the sun began to set, a warm breeze drifted through the humid air. Molly sat on the steps leading up to the restaurant, her arms resting on her knees as she snivelled quietly. She heard footsteps, ashamed of herself for knowing exactly who they belonged to.

"If you don't mind, Sherlock, I'd rather not hear any insults right now."

He pushed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "I'm not going to insult you, Molly."

"Well it feels like that's all you've done since you set foot in here today."

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "Look, it doesn't matter what I think-"

"Really?" she turned her head to look up at him. "I thought we were past pretending I don't care about you."

"What do you mean?"

She sighed. "I don't know why, Sherlock, but your blessing is the one I wanted the most."

He didn't reply. Instead he stood there, shifting on his feet.

"Maybe because I loved you for so long," she continued. "If you approve of the man I'm going to marry, it means he was worth all those years of heartbreak."

"Molly, I... I don't know what to say..."

"Just say congratulations." She laughed wiping away a tear and shrugging her shoulders. "Say you see how happy I am for you and Margaux, and let me have that for myself."

Sherlock bowed his head, his eyes skimming the stone step beneath his feet. "Congratulations," he said quietly.

She nodded with a teary smile. "Thank you."

*

They rode home in a taxi with Mrs Hudson. She was merry; bubbly like the champagne she had been drinking as she flirted with the driver. They climbed out onto the pavement, thankful that nightfall had cooled the air. Mrs Hudson danced into her flat, blowing kisses at Vaughan as he climbed the stairs with his parents. He giggled and blew one back.

"Come on, love," said Margaux as they reached the landing of 221B. "Straight up to bed, it's way past your bedtime."

"It's the summer holidays, I don't have a bedtime."

"Who told you that?"

He shrugged.

"Nice try. Come on."

...

She closed the door softly behind her and made her way to the top of the stairs.

"What are you doing?" she laughed quietly, looking down to see Sherlock waiting for her at the bottom.

"You're wearing high heels and attempting a set of stairs. I'm making sure you get down safely," he replied plainly.

"So kind."

They had grown used to feeling a breeze around their bedroom; the gentle rushing and soft sway of the curtains. August had been unrelenting in its heat, but with it came the quiet, romantic ritual of undressing together beside the open window. Sometimes talking, other times content in silence as the breeze danced across their bare skin.

Margaux climbed onto the bed and buried her face in a pillow as Sherlock lay down beside her.

"You did good tonight," she said. "I know it was hard for you, but Molly deserves to be happy."

He nodded as he began to lazily tickle her back. "Her happiness is important to me. Despite what all of you may think."

"I know it is." She smiled. "You're just a big softy beneath it all."

He let out a groan and rolled over.

Margaux laughed and shuffled up behind him, wrapping her arms around him and laying kisses on his back.

"I love you," she whispered.

He was silent for a moment before giving in. "I love you too," he replied.

"Promise you'll love me even when I'm too fat to be the big spoon?"

He rolled back over, lifting his arm up so she could cuddle up to him. "What the hell is the 'big spoon'?"

She laughed against his chest. "Never mind."

They lay together for a while. She stroked his cheek as he twirled her hair between his fingers. Finally, Sherlock spoke first. His voice rich and low as it cut through the quiet.

"The answer's yes, by the way."

"To what?"

"To whether I'll still love you when you're fat."

She giggled. "Are you sure? Because I'm going to be absolutely massive."

"Yes, I'm sure."

"Like, you'll have to pull me out of the bath when I get stuck, kind of massive."

"Did that really happen?"

"Mhm."

Sherlock's soft expression hardened. He moved his hand from her hair to her face, his eyes boring through the darkness.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you," he said.

"I forgave you a long time ago."

"I know. Though I don't think I've ever forgiven myself."

She leaned in and kissed him tenderly. "You can make up for it with this one," she whispered.

He yielded to her kisses, letting them calm his mind and soothe his grief. And as he held her tight in his arms, he felt the overwhelming need to protect her. More than he ever had before. 


	12. Folie a Deux

John stood at a set of French doors, gazing through the glass across a plush, green garden that led down to a stream. There was a wooden playhouse and a swing set that swayed gently in the breeze; he imagined Rosie playing there, Mary sitting in the grass with a book and glass of wine. He sighed and turned his back on the doors, making his way around the kitchen, opening and closing cabinets, looking up at the high ceilings.

Sherlock appeared in the doorway. "What do you think?"

"It's very nice, Sherlock. Really nice. Modern kitchen, spacious rooms, lovely garden."

"Mm you're right, it's not the one."

"I... Er, I don't think that's what I said."

John watched as he walked around the kitchen island, inspecting the marble worktop closely, before disappearing into another room.

He followed him in. "Is Margaux really okay with you writing off houses without her even seeing them?"

"She trusts my judgement," said Sherlock as he crouched down, bringing himself eye-level with a dining room table.

John raised an eyebrow. "Right. Brave woman..."

A man in a well-fitting grey suit stepped into the room. He was holding a tablet, the screen reflecting in the buttons of his jacket. "There you are. Thought I'd lost you both," he said with a smile.

"Sorry, he likes to work out things about the current owners by their furniture, belongings, decorative choices..."

The estate agent laughed. "So, what do you think of this place? Plenty of space if the two of you wanted to start a family."

"What?" John looked at Sherlock, then back to the man. "Oh, we're not here for... We're not gay."

"Oh, god I'm sorry. I just assumed..."

"Yeah no, we're – actually, we're not even a 'we' – I... _I_ am here to help my friend view some houses." He sighed. "Not gay. I find myself having to say that more than I should."

Sherlock stepped towards them calmly, as if he were unbothered by the assumption or simply hadn't been paying attention. "My wife is at home with severe morning sickness. Though I don't know why they call it that; it's not like midday hits and suddenly she's right as rain."

"Oh, you're expecting?" the agent smiled. "Congratulations. Well, you won't come by a house much better than this one. Plus, the owners are selling at a very reasonable price."

"Of course they are, they're getting a divorce and need to get rid of it as quickly as possible."

The agent's mouth opened slightly. "How did you..." he looked down at his tablet, tapping at the screen with a stylus. "Did I put that in the listing by accident?"

"No, you didn't. That's just how his brain works," said John.

*

"Space. A Garden. Good location. Do you know how hard it is to find a house in London that ticks all of those boxes?" asked John as they climbed the steps of Baker Street. "It's near impossible. Yet you viewed three today. Three perfect houses and you disregarded all of them with no actual, valid reason."

" _I'm_ the one that'll be living there. I can have whatever reason I want."

"You're stalling." John pointed a finger at him as they stepped inside. "You're putting off buying a house because you don't actually want to move. And you hope that once you've rejected all the houses, you'll have no choice but to stay here."

Sherlock pushed out his bottom lip and turned to John. "Was that your attempt at a deduction? It was cute, John, very observant."

John smiled triumphantly as he followed him up the stairs.

"But completely wrong," Sherlock finished. "I have no qualms about moving. Only people with _feelings_ attach sentimentality to buildings. Not me."

Mrs Hudson came out of her flat and walked to the banister. "Oh, I thought I heard voices."

Sherlock whipped around to John, whispering through gritted teeth. "She doesn't know we're planning to move. Do not tell her. I will kill you."

John laughed, raising his hands in surrender. "No problem."

"Have you been on a case?" she asked. "I heard something on the news about a robbery. Thought it'd be right up your street."

"Heard about it. Boring," said Sherlock. "We were working on... something else."

"Oh, right okay. Well if you boys need anything just shout. Margaux's still not feeling well so I've got Vaughan in here with me."

"Thanks Mrs Hudson," he smiled sincerely.

She went back inside her flat. John glanced up at Sherlock as the door clicked closed. "Well, you may not 'attach sentimentality' to buildings. But you sure do to people."

"We'll tell her when the time is right."

"Sure you will."

They made their way into the flat. Sherlock slid off his coat and hung it up, looking around at the work he had left scattered around the living room.

September. It was September and still nothing. Every day he watched the sky become greyer, the air become cooler, and found himself wishing it away. He was looking over his shoulder, opening every letter with a shaking hand, waiting. For what, he didn't know.

"I should go and check on Margaux. Wait here, keep yourself busy," he said.

"Already on it," John replied as he picked up his laptop and threw himself down in the armchair.

Sherlock walked down the narrow hall and tapped his knuckles against the bedroom door before opening it slowly. He peered his head around the doorway.

"Can I come in?"

"Mm," she groaned.

Margaux was curled up on her side in bed. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun on top of her head, her skin drained of colour besides the deep shadows beneath her eyes. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed and placed the back of his hand on her forehead.

"It's morning sickness, not the flu," she said.

"I wasn't checking your temperature, I was covering your face so I don't have to look at it."

She laughed. "If I look anything like I feel then I don't blame you."

"I was joking."

"I know, but that doesn't stop it from being true."

She sat up suddenly, reaching for the large bowl on the bedside table and shoving it under her chin. Sherlock grimaced as she began to retch, shuffling closer and reluctantly rubbing her back. After a few minutes, she stopped. She placed the empty bowl back on the table; her eyes watering, breaths heavy.

"I've been doing that all day," she said. "I'd rather actually throw up."

She lay back down, gesturing for him to join her. He obliged, lying on his back as she cuddled into him.

"You know, I never got it this bad when I was pregnant with Vaughan," she said. "Or maybe I was just too distracted grieving your death to notice."

Sherlock sucked the air through his teeth. "Oooh, low blow."

She smirked, nestling her face into his side. She had been sensitive to smells since the beginning, finding everything nauseating, unbearable and overpowering. Yet still, she would bury her face in his shirt, or nuzzle into the crook of his neck without a problem. She was convinced she could wrap herself up in his scent and stay there forever.

"So, what were the houses like?" she asked. "How many did you get to see?"

"Three. They were... fine."

"Just fine?"

"They were perfectly acceptable and I'm sure we could live in any of them quite comfortably."

"But none of them were _the_ house?"

"Precisely."

"Did you even take pictures for me? So I could see them?"

"That was John's job."

"Did the estate agent think you were a couple?"

"Of course he did."

Margaux laughed, her giggle turning slowly to a groan as another wave of nausea washed over her. She rolled over and reached for the bowl again.

*

Sherlock stood on the dark landing peering through a crack in the door to check on Vaughan. He was sleeping, so heavily that a gentle snore rattled from his nose. He was five-years-old. Strong-willed and intelligent, fiery yet soft. It was hard to comprehend, even for Sherlock, the idea that he would never be small again; that one day his cheeks would lose their roundness, that he wouldn't want his father checking on him as he slept.

He made his way downstairs, walking straight to the living room window and looking out onto the quiet street below. It was September, he thought, something had to be coming.

Margaux stood in the archway of the kitchen, watching him as he stared out into the darkness.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

He turned around, startled to see her out of bed. She was wearing his dressing gown, her stomach protruding beneath it with a small bump that was only noticeable at night. She had told him their baby was the size of a blueberry. But when he looked at her, he couldn't picture it.

"Nothing's the matter. I was just... looking," he replied. "Are you better?"

"A little bit," she said as she made her way over to the couch. "I have work in the morning so I sort of have to be."

"You can call in sick."

"I can't, it's not fair on Will."

He rolled his eyes and stepped away from the window. Margaux noticed the look of distain. She shook her head and smiled.

"Will you play me something?" she asked, gesturing to the violin in its stand.

He raised an eyebrow. "Now?"

She nodded.

"Why?"

"Because I like watching you play."

He remained quiet for a moment, looking down at her as she sat with her knees up. She looked tired, fragile, as if her smile was too heavy for her face. He sighed and picked up the violin, taking the bow in his other hand.

"What do you want me to play?" he asked.

"Anything."

He sighed again, thinking for a moment before raising the instrument to his chin.

Margaux watched as he drew the bow back and forth; a gentle, soothing melody pouring from the strings. As his fingers moved, she noticed his wedding ring catch the light, and felt a warmth in her cheeks. She had gotten used to calling him her husband, but in moments like this, it was still surreal. As he stood playing a song just for her, she couldn't quite believe that he was hers too.

After a while, he set down the violin. "That's enough of that," he said. "For fear of waking the five-year-old pensioner upstairs."

"Thank you." She smiled before patting the couch beside her.

"I can't," he said.

"Why? Are you busy?"

He gestured to the table of case work. "It's September. Fourteen days in and still nothing."

"Sherlock, love..."

"No, I know what you're going to say, and I understand. But they forewarned me. They killed people just to send me a message – something _has_ to be coming."

"Well, whoever it is, they've probably assumed you know what's coming. Who's to say they're not waiting for you to come to them? That they're not sitting somewhere thinking you already have the answer."

His eyes widened. He had never contemplated the idea that he had missed something – that they were waiting for him.

He sat down beside her, taking her hand in his. "Darling, you have to help me. Look over everything I have so far and tell me what I'm missing."

"Sherlock, I'm exhausted. Besides, you know how I feel about all of this. I don't want you following them."

"Please."

She gripped his hand tighter. "This baby is the size of a blueberry. Yet look at what it's doing to me. Look at how something so small can cause so much devastation."

"Whose idea was it to measure foetal growth in fruit?"

"Sherlock."

He sighed. "I know what you're saying. This case doesn't just affect me." He paused. "So, help me put an end to it."

...

She rubbed her eyes with her fingers as she propped her elbow on the table.

"Have you added the surnames of the poison victims to the equation?"

"Yes, nothing."

"Have you looked into their backgrounds, searched for connections, common interests, acquaintances, similarities..."

"Nothing they all share."

"Their ages? Dates of birth?"

"No. It's nothing like that."

Margaux sighed. "Then I don't know, Sherlock. Maybe I was wrong."

He stood up from the table, pacing back and forth. "There has to be some significance."

"What if..." she began.

"What if what?"

"What if you've read it wrong? What if September was just a clue as opposed to a warning?"

"Wh..."

"You've been saying all along how they haven't given you enough to go on. What if they have and you just haven't noticed?"

"That's impossible. I notice everything."

"Do you?"

He stared down at her and began twisting his wedding ring on his finger. She stood up and walked around the table, taking his face in her hands.

"Sherlock, I don't think anything is coming. They may commit another crime, yes. But... I don't think this was a warning."

"I..."

"Whoever this is, they're delusional. Don't fall into their delusion too."

He exhaled slowly as she kissed him, relaxing into the comfort of her arms wrapping around his shoulders. He slid his hands around her back, pulling her body flush to his, wondering how much longer he'd be able to hold her so close before there was a large bump between them.

*

Rain pelted the pavement, the heavy charcoal clouds making morning look like dusk. Sherlock hadn't moved from the living room table all night, barely blinking as the sun rose, barely saying goodbye as Margaux and Vaughan left for work and school.

He didn't understand, and it was driving him mad. Whoever they were, they had assumed he was capable of cracking their puzzle, but he was no closer than when he started. He didn't know who, he didn't know how, and he didn't know why.

He opened his laptop and brought up John's blog, hacking the password within seconds and composing a new post.

_September is Sherlock's least favourite month. He says it is like a house on the corner of two seasons. And it starts getting dark by 6pm._

He posted it, cracking his knuckles and slamming the laptop shut. Then he took out his phone and dialled quickly.

"Mycroft, have your people monitor the visitors to John Watson's blog."

"Why? What have you done?" asked Mycroft cynically.

"Just do it. And call Lestrade, tell him to be on standby tonight. Oh, and he's not to mention it to Margaux."

"Ah well if it's something your wife can't know about then it must be bad."

"Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed down the phone. "As you wish, brother mine."

*

He checked his watch. It was just after 6pm, the sun was disappearing and the rain was unrelenting. He climbed out of a black cab on a quiet residential street and made his way towards a house.

The windows of the house had been boarded up and there were pieces of crime scene tape still stuck in the bushes. Sherlock forced open the front door and walked slowly around the house, eventually making his way up the creaky staircase.

He reached the top of the stairs, peering down the landing towards the room where the body had been. But instead of a homeless woman draped in pink, there was a tall, slim figure standing in the doorway. He recognised him immediately; the hair tucked behind his ears, the shirt rolled up at the sleeves, the lanyard hanging around his neck. William.

Sherlock slid his hand into his pocket, gripping the handle of his gun as he took a step towards him. But he stopped suddenly, when Will rose his hands; halting him, urging him to stay back.

"Don't... shoot... the messenger," said Will. His voice was quiet, shaking.

"What?"

He moved one hand slowly, pointing to his ear. "Don't shoot the messenger."

Sherlock furrowed his brow as a vision of John appeared in his mind palace. A large pool, a vest of dynamite beneath a thick winter coat, and Moriarty's voice whispering through an earpiece.

"D-don't worry, he's not wearing a bomb." Will's voice quivered. "Though I admire Jim Moriarty's work, explosives aren't really my th-thing..."

"I should have guessed that this would be another one of your reimaginings," said Sherlock as he took out his phone and sent a text to Lestrade.

"Well you didn't think I'd- I'd give up this easily, did you?"

"What next? Are you going to steal the Crown Jewels? Is a mutant hound going to jump out and attack me?"

"Oh... Mr Holmes... surely you know that the cases I'm recreating aren't the focus. They're a tool. The easiest way t-to get you to pay attention."

"Pay attention? I haven't paid you thought at all," he lied. "In the time you've begun your little game, I've gone on with my life as if you didn't exist; I've continued working on cases, I even got married for Christ's sake. You're uninteresting to me. I mean, copying other people's work, where's the creativity? Where's the fun in solving a mystery when you already know the answer?"

"But you don't know the answer. D-do you... Mr Holmes. Otherwise you wouldn't be here."

He stared at him.

"You want to know why," Will continued. He looked terrified, his tall frame almost collapsing in on itself.

"Of course I do," Sherlock replied.

"F-first... I want to hear _your_ theory."

"I..."

"C-c... come on, Mr Holmes. Tell me what you've got so far. T-tell me how... close you are to catching me."

"I... I don't have anything."

Will dropped his head. Sherlock glared at him, waiting for him to repeat the next response.

"Well?" Said Sherlock. "What are they saying?"

"He... he's not saying anything." Said Will, looking up to meet his gaze. "He's just laughing."

Sherlock huffed, his eyes darting around the narrow corridor. "Is it true that you're not wearing any explosives?"

Will gave a subtle nod.

"Then how did you get here? What have they done to you to keep you from walking away?"

"I..." his mouth clamped shut. He inhaled deeply before speaking again. "My... m-messenger has a secret, Mr Holmes. An... earth-shattering secret."

"Ah. So for what you lack in power, you make up for in blackmail."

"I'm lacking in power? What an I-interesting deduction. I would say knowledge is power, wouldn't you?"

"Shut up. What was the significance of September?"

"A-answer my question..."

"Yes. Knowledge is power."

"Well then... use your power to- to work that out for yourself."

"I.."

"Thanks for popping in, Mr Holmes. Y-your wife can have her plaything back now..." Will let out a loud sigh and sank to his knees.

"What?"

"Me... he was talking about me. _I'm_ the plaything."

"He's gone?"

Will nodded before tearing the device from his ear and burying his face into his hands. "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. I had to do as he said..."

"That was it? Months of build-up for that!?" He let out a roar.

He turned to the wall beside him and kicked it hard, putting a hole through the mouldy plaster. Will jumped in fright, staring up at him as he began to trash the landing. Only stopping once he heard Lestrade ascending the stairs.

"What the hell's going on?" asked Greg, his attention turning to Will. "Oh no, have you gone and attacked the poor lad again!?"

"Of course not!" Sherlock scoffed.

...

Margaux slammed an evidence bag on the interrogation room table. Inside was the earpiece that Will had torn out. Sherlock looked down at it, then up to his wife; her face was filled with fury, but he could see the worry welling up behind her eyes.

"What were you thinking?" she asked.

"I just wanted to talk to them."

"Just like you wanted to talk to Jim Moriarty on the roof that day?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned back in the uncomfortable metal chair. "Is this a real interview? Because surely this is a huge conflict of interest..."

She sat down opposite him, her jaw clenching as she spoke. "This person is a lunatic, Sherlock, and you arranged a bloody playdate with them!"

"I needed to know."

"And do you? Do you know now? Was putting yourself and my trainee in danger worth it?"

He didn't answer.

"What would you have done if they turned up with weapons? If they rigged the house with bombs?" she lowered her voice. "You promised that you would always put _us_ first."

He dropped his head and blew out a slow, exasperated breath. "I'm sorry."

The door to the small room opened and Greg stepped inside with his hands in his pockets.

"Sherlock Holmes just apologised, and I got it on tape." He grinned, pointing up at the camera in the corner. "So you _are_ capable. How come you can never say it to me?"

"I'm not married to you," he quipped.

"You won't be married to _Margaux_ much longer if you keep this up."

Margaux shook her head. "I'm going home," she sighed. "Are you coming? Or are you meeting another villain somewhere for coffee?"

He stood up and followed her out of the room.

Greg smirked as he walked past, the sight of Sherlock Holmes being berated by his wife was deliciously satisfying.

*

Mycroft sat in his dark office tapping a pen against his desk. On his computer was a livestream, showing him a glimpse into his sister's cell at Sherrinford. She was sitting still, so still that the footage could have been mistaken for a photograph. He sighed, turning his attention to a picture of Vaughan on the desk, his mouth curling into a slight smile.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yes?"

A man entered in a black suit holding a Manila folder. "Mr Holmes, I've brought the data from Dr Watson's website. Here are the names of everyone that visited the blog in the past twelve hours."

"Excellent." He nodded.


	13. Thirteen

Margaux unravelled the thick scarf from around her neck and took off her coat. She draped them over the chair, taking her phone from the pocket one last time to check for a message. Nothing. She scrunched her nose and put the phone away before climbing onto the examination bed and lying back with a long, disappointed exhale.

The room was dimly lit; calm and inviting. Yet the distinctive hospital smell still hung in the air, making her anxious and uneasy. The technician entered the room and smiled, picking up the folder of Margaux's pregnancy notes and looking over them as she spoke.

"Margaux Holmes..."

"That's me."

"Lovely. Let's get started, can you lift your top up?"

Margaux rolled up her thick, knitted jumper as the technician pulled out a roll of measuring tape. She stretched the tape over her stomach, biting the inside of her cheek.

"You're twenty weeks?" she asked.

"Twenty weeks and three days."

"Hm. You're measuring a little bit bigger."

"Oh god," Margaux sighed. "You know I've been having nightmares about giving birth to a giant baby."

The technician laughed. "It's normal to be bigger with your second child. Is the father tall?"

"Around six foot."

"Well there you go, blame him."

Margaux smiled and glanced over at her coat. "He was actually supposed to meet me here. I can't believe he's missing this."

"Aw I'm sorry. When we're done, I can get you some leaflets about pregnancy as a single mother..."

"Oh no, I'm _married_ to the baby's father. He's just a pain in the arse."

"Oh," the technician snorted. "Sorry."

Margaux watched as she set up the machine and pulled on a pair of latex gloves. Her skin pricked with goose bumps as the cold gel squirted onto her stomach, and she waited quietly as the transducer glided over her skin.

The thudding of a healthy heartbeat cut through the quiet. The technician turned the screen towards her with a smile before beginning to click and type on the machine as Margaux lay staring at the blurry image of her baby.

"So... Is my child going to be huge?" she asked.

"I doubt it," she laughed. "Everything is fine; your bump's just measuring bigger than what the baby actually is."

"Oh good, so I'm just fat. I can deal with that."

"Are you wanting us to try and find out the sex today?"

Margaux sighed. "I feel strange finding out without my husband..."

Like a reliable cuckoo clock, the door swung open. The two women jumped in fright at the sudden burst of chaos, staring in shock at the tall shadow in the doorway. As the figure stepped into the room, the technician jumped up from her chair.

"You can't be in here!"

"I am so sorry," said Margaux, her chest rising and falling quickly. "This is my husband."

"Your husband?"

"I told you he was a pain in the arse."

Sherlock closed the door behind him and made his way quickly to the chair beside the bed. The closer he came, the more she realised that he still looked like a shadow; a perfect silhouette moving across the room. He was covered in soot. From his curly hair to his clothes, even his usually creamy-coloured skin was coated in a film of thick, black dust.

"What the hell happened to you?" she hissed.

He was breathless and distracted as he spoke. "Strange case. Missing body. Old house. Big chimney."

She rolled her eyes.

"This is a sterile environment," said the technician. "You really shouldn't be in here covered in... that."

Sherlock looked up at her. His clear blue eyes piercing through the grime that clung to his face. "You would like me to miss the scan of my unborn child because I'm not pristine enough for you?"

Margaux slapped her palm against her forehead. "I'm so sorry," she said. "I'm sorry I... We should go."

"Well what about the baby?" he asked. "Is it a boy or a girl?"

"Sherlock, do you really expect us to continue with this scan and just pretend that you're not dressed like the cast of Oliver?"

"I... I don't mind telling you the sex of the baby..." the technician said. "I've already captured the image, so if you want to know I can just tell you. Before you go."

Margaux glanced between the two of them before settling her eyes on the still image of the baby on the monitor.

*

Sherlock turned on the shower and tilted his head back, closing his eyes and rubbing his face with soapy hands. He looked down as the water ran in jet-black streams over his chest, leaning forward and letting it wash away the dirt from his hair.

"What were you doing up a bloody chimney?" asked Margaux as she leaned against the sink. "In the middle of December too, it must've been freezing!"

He pulled back the shower curtain and stepped out onto the bathmat with a shrug. She handed him a towel which he used to wipe his face and dry his hair.

"I lost track of time," he finally said. "It was an honest mistake, I _promise._ "

She sighed, biting her lip and keeping her eyes firmly on his face.

"Am I making it hard for you to concentrate?" he asked.

"Yes."

He gave a subtle smirk and wrapped the towel around his waist.

"Why can't we just be like all the other couples we see at the hospital? _Normal_ couples."

"We're not normal." He said matter-of-factly. "I'm a sociopathic detective who faked his own death for two years, and you're a ball of emotional trauma who eats lunch over pictures of dead bodies."

She rolled her eyes, opened the bathroom door and made her way into the hall. "Still no excuse to turn up to an ultrasound covered in soot."

"I apologised."

He followed her out of the bathroom and disappeared into the bedroom. She stood there for a moment, laying her hands on her bump as it fluttered with kicks, before scrunching her brow and looking down the hall.

"What did you mean 'a ball of emotional trauma'?" she called out.

He popped his head around the door. "What?"

"You called me a ball of emotional trauma. What's that supposed to mean?"

Sherlock sighed and began muttering to himself. "John said _don't_ get into fights with the pregnant woman. _Don't_..."

"Sherlock..."

He huffed and opened the door wide, talking as he dressed himself. "You have experienced a lot of emotional trauma in your life. More than the average person. Your... _approach_ to said trauma seems to be to... ball it up and ignore it."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. It's your coping mechanism. Just like John's coping mechanism is to talk through it and understand it, yours is to pretend it doesn't exist. You're very good at it - for the most part."

"Are you psychoanalysing me!?"

He buttoned up his shirt and tucked it into his trousers before making his way towards her. "You also like to pick fights to deflect from talking about your past. Another coping mechanism." He kissed her on the side of the head and walked away into the kitchen.

She followed him, taking a sharp intake of breath as she prepared to speak again.

"Mummy, Daddy!" shouted Vaughan as he ran into the kitchen with his arms outstretched.

Sherlock ruffled his hair as he hugged his leg. "How was school?"

Vaughan shrugged before running towards Margaux.

"Gentle with your mother, remember," said Sherlock.

Mrs Hudson turned into the room with a smile. "We had a lovely walk home, didn't we love."

Vaughan nodded.

"But it took a turn when we got to the front door," she said.

"Why?" asked Margaux.

"Because this one was waiting on the step..." she gestured behind herself.

Suddenly, Mycroft stepped into view. Standing tall and proper in a clean-cut suit. He gave an insincere smile, as if he were already bored.

"I'll go and make some tea," said Mrs Hudson as she began making her way down to her flat.

"Can I help you?" asked Sherlock as he looked across the room to his brother.

"Actually, I came to discuss the deal we made." He walked into the kitchen, resting his weight on the umbrella in his hand. "I said I would provide you with the list of visitors to John Watson's blog as payment for your assistance with the missing assassin."

"That's bribery," said Margaux.

"It's business," he replied.

"Yes, you did," Sherlock nodded. "And I found him dead up a chimney. So, where's the list?"

Mycroft cleared his throat. "That is where I've run into an issue. The list has been... destroyed."

"Destroyed?"

"It seems we were hacked."

"The government. The whole British government got _hacked_?"

"I am as dumbfounded as you." He paused. "When we regained control of our systems, the only thing missing was that list. Gone. Deleted. As well as the original data we had collected."

"Didn't you think to make a copy?"

"Yes. That has also vanished. Stolen, I assume." He lowered his head, looking up at Sherlock from beneath his brow. "Baby brother, it seems as though you're being given quite the run for your money."

Margaux bent down to Vaughan and tucked his hair behind his ears. "Love, why don't you go up and get changed out of your uniform?"

The little boy nodded and ran off towards his bedroom.

"Mycroft, do you think this person is dangerous?" she asked.

"This person is a murderer..."

"No, I know that. I meant to us... Do you think we're at risk?"

"It's hard to say. People tend to develop fascinations with my brother. More often than not, they desire his attention, not his blood."

Sherlock stood quietly with his arms folded across his chest - listening.

"Anyway, I must be going. Apologies for the disappointing news." He turned to leave before stopping and stepping back into the kitchen. "Ah, I still owe you payment for your work. Allow me to make a contribution towards the new home–"

"Mycroft, stop trying to give us money," Margaux laughed.

"We've already told you our budget's fine," Sherlock added.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "As you wish. I'm sure there are some _lovely_ garden sheds within your price range."

The couple rolled their eyes in perfect unison.

"You're moving?"

Margaux felt the air leave her lungs, and she was sure she could hear Sherlock's heart beating from across the table. They glanced into the archway, where Mrs Hudson stood holding a tray of tea in her shaking hands.

*

December frost covered London like a glittering blanket, the air so cold it turned breath to fog, puddles to ice. Margaux stopped the car and pulled the handbrake, dropping her hands to her lap and pressing her lips together awkwardly. She turned to the passenger seat where Sherlock sat, his eyes fixed on the view outside his window. She looked up into the rear-view mirror and sighed at the reflection of Mrs Hudson in the back seat; a sad, worried look on her face.

"Are you going to be alright?" Margaux asked.

Mrs Hudson cleared her throat, straightened her posture and unclipped her seatbelt. "Oh yes, of course. Just ignore me, I'm being silly."

They climbed out of the car and began walking up the driveway of a house; Sherlock held out his arm for Margaux to hold onto as they crossed the uneven gravel. They were greeted at the front door by their estate agent who was blowing hot air into his hands and rubbing them together.

Mrs Hudson leaned in to Sherlock. "He could have waited inside. He's got the bloody key..."

Sherlock smirked.

He let them inside. "Feel free to have a good look around. The owners don't currently live here so we've got all the time we need." He smiled and walked away down the hall.

"Well," said Mrs Hudson. "Isn't this lovely. Don't you think so Sherl–"

Before she could finish, Sherlock had walked away.

"Don't worry about him, he's done this in every house we've viewed. He likes to go off by himself... 'deduce things' about the owners."

They shared a giggle and began to explore the house.

The living room was large yet cosy with a large fireplace. A set of double doors connected it to a smaller room; a study, with bookshelves built into the wall. Margaux smiled as she imagined herself working in there, the books she could store on those shelves. They made their way into the kitchen, running their hands across the marbled granite and gazing out at the serene view of the garden through the large windows.

They made their way upstairs, the pair gasping as they laid eyes on the large, round landing.

"What would you need five bedrooms for?" said Mrs Hudson cynically as they walked around each room.

"I don't know. I mean, if Sherlock got his way they'd be filled with kids." She laughed. "Since we found out we were having this one, it's like he's gone baby-mad. If it were up to him, he'd have me constantly pregnant for the next ten years."

"Ooh you could be like the Von Trapps of the detective world!"

Margaux laughed and patted Mrs Hudson on the arm. "Honestly, I think two is a nice, even number." She rubbed her stomach gently before turning her attention to the window. "Mrs Hudson look at this!"

They stepped up to the glass and peered out across the vast garden.

"It's like a little pocket of peace in the middle of London." she smiled.

Mrs Hudson looked at her and sighed, blinking away the urge to cry.

Margaux reached for her hand. "You know if the flat was bigger we'd stay there forever..."

"I know that. I'll just miss you all. That's all."

Sherlock walked into the room. The two women squeezed each other's hands and let go gently before turning to face him.

"Have you looked around?" he asked.

"We have. Have you?"

"Yes. What do you think?"

"Well... I really like it," said Margaux. "Actually, I love it. I haven't been able to picture myself living anywhere like I have with this one. But what do _you_ think?"

"I think I am happiest when you're happy."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson swooned.

Sherlock cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. "So... this is the one?"

"I think it is." Margaux looked around. "Yes. This is the one."

"Good, because I just bought it."

"What!?"

"Downstairs with the estate agent just now, I bought it."

"Without consulting me?"

"I did consult you." He placed his finger on his temple.

"You know mind palace me isn't _actually_ me..."

"She was right though, wasn't she." He grinned.

Margaux's mouth opened, but no words would leave her. Instead she laughed, a soft, breathy laugh that made her arms drop her sides. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He glanced at Mrs Hudson, reluctant to return the hug while she was watching.

"Oh, just hug her will you, Sherlock," said Mrs Hudson. "My bedroom's beneath your bedroom, I've _heard_ worse than hugging."

Margaux laughed against Sherlock's chest. He draped his arms around her shoulders and pressed his face into the top of her head, nestling his nose into the scent of her hair.

Mrs Hudson clasped her hands together, grinning proudly, allowing a tear to escape the corner of her eyes.

*

They climbed the steps to 221B. Margaux turned to them and smiled.

"I'm going to lie down before we have to pick Vaughan up from school."

Sherlock nodded as she walked away before looking down at Mrs Hudson. She was gazing around the living room; at the clutter of case work, the collection of skulls and the yellow spray paint on the wall.

"What's wrong with you?" He asked bluntly.

She batted her hand against his chest. "Oh Sherlock, have a heart. I'm going to miss you. It's just not going to feel right renting this place out to anyone else."

"Why would you do that?"

"Well you're not expecting me to keep it empty."

"It won't be empty. I'll be here."

She furrowed her brow as she looked up at him.

"I may have lived here all these years," he said. "But it's also been my place of work. I intend to keep it that way."

"What?"

"You don't expect me to take clients from a house outside of the city do you? I am Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street. That's the way it's going to stay."

"You're going to... work here? Rent it out like an office space?"

"That was the plan. Unless you take issue with it?"

"Oh Sherlock," she cried, pulling him into a hug.

He stood there as she squeezed him with his arms by his sides. But after a moment, a smile began to melt his cold expression. He raised his arm and wrapped it gently around her shoulders.

*

Sherlock and John sat in their armchairs in front of the roaring fire as Vaughan and Rosie played together on the floor. John held up Sherlock's phone in front of his face, examining the picture glowing on the screen. 

"So," he said. "This is the place." 

"Yep. 13 Doyle Street," Margaux smiled as she walked over and perched on the arm of Sherlock's chair. 

Sherlock reached up, placing his hand on her back, encouraging her to slip onto his lap. She obliged, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and resting her other hand on her bump.

John smiled. "How does it feel to be homeowners?" 

"I wasn't aware that owning a building was supposed to induce _feelings_ …" Sherlock replied. 

He shook his head and put the phone down, glancing at Margaux's stomach. A mixture of pride and mourning washed over him as he wished his wife could be there too. Sitting on his lap. Watching their almost three-year-old as she played. 

Margaux shifted uncomfortably. Sherlock looked up at her with worry. 

She shook her head with a smile. "I'm fine, she just won't stop moving." 

John's eyes brightened. " _She_?" 

"Ah yes, it's a girl," replied Sherlock bluntly, pointing to her stomach. 

He sat forward in his chair, his mouth hanging open with excitement. 

"A girl… It's… you're having a girl?" 

"Mhm, found out yesterday." 

"Well congratulations! This is great. Have you told anyone else? Have you bought anything for her yet? Have you thought of any names? Oh god, she's going to be called something like Wrenshaw or Proudlock, isn't she." 

Margaux laughed.

"Well let's be honest," said Sherlock. "She's a Holmes, her parents are called Sherlock and Margaux and her brother's called Vaughan; she was never going to have a _normal_ name." 

"That's true," John laughed, relaxing back into his seat. 

"We're pretty set on Flora," said Margaux. 

"Flora…" he repeated the name quietly a few times, letting it sit for a moment in the air. It was pretty. It made him feel soft and calm. "I like it." 

"Good," she nodded. "But… Even though she'd be known as Flora, we wanted to ask you how you'd feel if her first name was actually… Mary." 

He suddenly forgot how to breath as a lump formed in his throat. They watched as he dropped his head, waiting tentatively for him to say something. 

After a few minutes, he looked up at them. His eyes were glossy, the flames from the fireplace reflecting in the tears sitting on his waterline. "Mary Flora Holmes," he finally said. 

She nodded slowly.

"I think that's beautiful." He choked back a gentle sob. 

"Actually it's Mary Flora Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock. 

John raised an eyebrow at Margaux. 

She rolled her eyes. "That one's an ongoing discussion." 


	14. Doyle St

They had spent their last Christmas in Baker Street, brought in the New Year on the doorstep of 221B. Mrs Hudson had cried as they said goodbye, her tears turning to a chuckle when Sherlock reminded her he'd be back that same afternoon to work. Then they arrived at their new home - big, empty, daunting.

After a few days, 13 Doyle Street smelled like fresh paint and new furniture. There were flowers on the kitchen windowsill, coats hanging in the hall. But still, their voices would echo and their footsteps sounded hollow as they moved around the house. They had never realised how small the flat had been until now, until they found themselves surrounded by more space than they would ever need.

Sherlock stood at the living room window with his hands clasped behind his back. He was looking out at the January snow freezing over in the driveway, observing the salt-gritted road and trying to get a look at the neighbours beyond it.

"Sherlock!" The scream echoed through the house, bouncing off the bare walls and rattling the doorframes.

He left the window quickly, rushing out of the living room and taking two stairs at a time until he reached the landing.

"Margaux!?"

"In here."

He followed her voice into the master bedroom. "Is something wrong?" he asked, panicking as he hurried towards her.

"No, I'm fine." She was sitting at the end of their new bed, running her hands over the freshly made sheets. "What do think?" She asked.

"What do I think? I _thought_ something was wrong! Why would you shout like that just to ask me a question!?"

"I wanted you to come quickly."

"There are other less-dramatic ways to get someone's attention."

"Oh, you mean like firing a gun in the street instead of calling 999?"

He stopped for a moment. "I didn't know John told you about that..."

Margaux smirked. "So... What do you think?"

"Yes, the bedding is very nice. I told you that in the shop when you picked it."

"Don't be dim, Sherlock." She patted the space beside her, beckoning him to join her.

"Darling, it's twelve in the afternoon."

She huffed. "And?"

"And... I have things downstairs that I need to do."

"So you'd rather sort through boxes than be intimate with your wife?"

He glanced down, just for a second, at the large, round bump beneath her t-shirt.

She frowned as she noticed his eyes flicker. "You don't fancy me anymore, do you."

"Oh don't be ridiculous."

"You were so eager to get me pregnant. But now that I actually _am_ pregnant, it's like I repel you."

"You don't repel me." He cleared his throat. "Rejection of sexual advances does not necessarily mean there is a lack of sexual attraction. It simply means there is something outweighing one's need for intimacy, such as fatigue, distractedness, stress..."

"It's been months." She leaned back, propping herself up on her elbows.

"Well then clearly I've been fatigued, distracted and stressed... for months."

"I knew you'd be like this."

"Like what?"

"Repulsed."

"I'm not _repulsed_." He winced slightly, noticing the insincerity in his own voice, annoyed with himself for not hiding it better.

She rolled her eyes and struggled to her feet. "Mhm."

*

An icy wind brushed through the dewy grass of the graveyard. John stood at Mary's plot; hands in pockets, his face cold as January. He glanced around before stepping closer to the headstone.

"Rosie was three last week. Can you believe it? Three." He forced air out from his cheeks. "You'd be so proud of her, Mary. She definitely gets her attitude from you."

He looked over to the church, remembering when he first lost her, how he would see her standing there. He didn't see her so much anymore.

"Will I ever not feel guilty?" He looked back down at her name etched on the stone. "I know you'd want me to move on, but what if I never can?"

"When my brother told me you come here to talk with her, I must admit I found it rather odd. She was cremated, was she not?"

John turned to see Mycroft standing beside him. He hadn't heard him coming, but he wasn't startled; he had learned to expect him everywhere.

"Yep, she was," he replied.

"So what are you talking to, exactly?"

"Can I help you, Mycroft?"

"How is Sherlock adjusting to the new environment?"

"You tracked me down in a graveyard just to ask me about Sherlock? Why didn't you ask him yourself- Actually never mind, that was a stupid question."

He placed his hand on Mary's headstone for a moment before making his way off the grass. Mycroft followed behind, his expensive shoes clicking along the path as they walked together.

"He seems detached, emotionless, unbothered by it all," John continued. "So in other words, he's his normal self."

Mycroft let out a small laugh. "I must admit, I find the entire thing rather fascinating. As children, our mother always insisted I look after him, now it seems he has outgrown me." 

"If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were scared of losing him."

They stopped near the gates of the cemetery. Mycroft squinted as he glanced up at the grey sky before looking down at John with a curt smile.

"Are _you_ not?" he asked.

"Am I not what? Scared of losing him?"

"You lose a man when he marries, John."

"Sherlock didn't lose _me_ when I got married..."

"Perhaps he would have, if you hadn't spent the first year of marriage using him as a way to actively avoid your wife. Unfortunately for you, Dr Watson, Sherlock is quite fond of his."

John laughed, pressing his tongue into his cheek. "You can't half be an arsehole sometimes, Mycroft."

"Funny, that's exactly what my mother said to me earlier this morning."

A sleek black car pulled up on the road beyond the cemetery gates. Mycroft gave a signal, telling it to wait.

"Right, well..." John checked his watch and began to walk away.

"Dr Watson."

He stopped and turned around.

"Though I may appear dispassionate about my brother's decision to play house, I must stress that his safety and the safety of his family is paramount to me."

He walked back towards him. "Sounds like you're saying they're in trouble..."

"Not at all. Because I categorically will not allow them to be."

John stared up at him, at his sharp nose and pursed lips, at the stormy blue in his eyes. "You know something."

"On the contrary, I know everything," he gave a sarcastic smile. "But in regards to the case you have been working on, no I don't. Not yet. I have people working on it as we speak."

"How does Sherlock feel about that?"

"He doesn't know, and I'd like to keep it that way. So I want your word. That you will keep my brother busy; humour him, entertain his theories and deductions, anything to keep him from meddling in what is now _my_ investigation. But if you feel he's getting close to something, you will inform me."

"In the years I've known you, how many times have I agreed to spy on him for you?"

Mycroft bowed his head and smiled. "Always a pleasure, Dr Watson."

*

Margaux sat at her desk working on her computer, her earphones blocked out the hum of the bullpen as it bustled with police officers and detectives. Yet even with music playing in her ears, she still sensed a change in the air around her. She looked up from the screen, her brow furrowing as she noticed everyone's eyes on her. She turned in her chair to see William walking towards her.

"Hi," he said.

"H-Hi..."

He pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. She switched off her music and pulled out her earphones.

"It's been a while," she said awkwardly.

"Three months off for 'emotional distress'. That's more than I got when he strangled me." He gave a subtle smirk.

She laughed, relaxing slightly as the busyness returned around them. "How are you?"

"I'm okay. Kind of on edge, looking over my shoulder more than I used to..."

"I'm so sorry, Will."

He shook his head. "Don't be. Honestly, I just want to get back to it. Maybe even help solve this thing."

She smiled. "Well unfortunately, you couldn't have chosen a more boring day to come back. I'm writing a report."

"Anything I can help with?"

"Sure, erm..." She began sifting through piles of crisp, handwritten notes on her desk. "You can take these and-" she gasped.

Will looked at her with worry as she dropped the notes and grabbed him by the wrist, yanking his hand forward and placing it on her bump.

"Do you feel that?" she asked.

"Whoa."

They sat for a while. Quiet. In awe of the strong, fluid kicks moving across her stomach.

Margaux looked up at him. She had been dying for the chance to talk to him since the incident. Longing to ask questions and hungry for answers. This was her chance.

"Will... They wouldn't show me the statement you made. They wouldn't tell me anything, really, because I'm his wife and it's a conflict of interest. But I need to know. How did they... _get_ you?"

He inhaled slowly and shook his head, his hand still on her stomach as he spoke. "Honestly, I left work that day and that's the last thing I remember before waking up on the floor of that house wearing an earpiece. I'm guessing I was drugged, maybe tranquillised? I don't know."

"What was his voice like?"

"It wasn't unique." He shrugged. "He could speak right now and you probably wouldn't take notice."

"I'm sorry you got dragged into it."

"It's fine, really."

They looked down at his hand still laid over her stomach.

He pulled away, laughing nervously. "That was... I've never felt a baby kick before."

"Weird, isn't it." She giggled as she collected the notes and straightened them into a pile.

"Margaux..."

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever been in danger because of him before?"

She looked at him and sighed before shuffling closer and pulling down the neck of her jumper, revealing the thick scars on her neck and collarbone.

Will's mouth dropped open. "How?"

"The east wind."

His brow furrowed in confusion. But after a moment, his face calmed. "Is that what the place setting was for at the wedding? The empty seat with the 'E'; the 'East Wind'?"

She felt her back tense, her palms clamming up as she lay them flat on her desk. "It was for his sister. But she couldn't be there."

"Why?"

She cleared her throat but it still felt tight. "It's... It's not really my place to say anything more."

"You're right. I'm sorry for prying. Can't help myself sometimes."

She smiled and handed him the notes before slipping her earphones back in and turning up the music.

*

Sherlock sat cross-legged on top of the desk in the study, the box containing the chair still sat unopened beside it. John folded his arms as he looked around the room.

"Didn't you say this was going to be _Margaux's_ study? Since you have an entire flat to yourself for work..."

"I can't get to Baker Street right now. I just needed somewhere to think."

"Right. And how's that going?"

"It would be easier if you weren't jabbering on at me."

John rolled his eyes and turned around, opening the large double doors and stepping into the living room. He threw himself down on the couch, patting around for the TV remote before noticing it on the other side of the room. He let out a sigh.

The door opened.

"Daddy," said Rosie as she walked over to him. "Can I stay here tonight at auntie Marg and Uncle Sherlock's?"

"Oh, love I don't-"

"Vaughan said I can." She looked over her shoulder as the little boy joined them.

"Well it's not up to him, I'm afraid."

"She can stay," Sherlock shouted from the study.

Rosie and Vaughan bounced around excitedly.

John sat forward on the couch. "Are you sure?"

"I've said she can spend the night, it's not like I've offered to adopt her," he replied dryly as he walked into the room and kicked the doors closed behind him. "Besides, it's always good for a Holmes to have a Watson around."

A smile tugged at the corners of John's mouth.

Vaughan tapped him on the knee. "I'm getting a sister soon," he said.

"I know, isn't that exciting," he replied.

"Not really. I said I didn't need a sister because I already have Rosie, but they didn't listen."

Sherlock snapped his fingers and pointed at his son. "Say that again."

"I don't remember what I said," Vaughan replied.

"You said 'they didn't listen'. They didn't listen..." he continued to repeat it, over and over again as he paced back and forth.

Vaughan turned to Rosie. "My daddy's gone silly again."

John watched as the children left the room, listening as they climbed the stairs together before turning his attention back to Sherlock.

"What is it?"

"I've wronged this person, John."

"What?"

"Somewhere at some point, this person has tried to reach out to me, and I _didn't listen._ "

"W- Are you sure?"

Sherlock hurried back into the study and reappeared with a large cardboard box. He dumped it on the floor with a thud before going back into the room and returning with another.

"Almost certain," he said. "Think about it; copying cases to get my attention, the message on the wall in the alley: 'interested yet?'."

John watched as he tore the tape off the boxes and tipped them upside down. Heaps of envelopes fell onto the floor like an avalanche, some still unopened, all of them with the same address on the front. _Sherlock Holmes - 221B Baker Street. London._

 _"Is this..._ Are these _letters?"_

"It would be impossible to help every person that writes to me. Also, I tend not to accept boring cases."

"You shouldn't call them 'boring'."

"But they are," he replied bluntly as he dug around the mountains of letters. "Well, are you going to help me?"

John thought back to his conversation with Mycroft. 'Keep him busy', he had said, 'humour him'. He shrugged, stood up and sat himself down beside him.

"So what are we looking for?"

"First, we must differentiate the cases I accepted from the ones I didn't."

"Right, okay. Any beers in the fridge?"

"Why?"

"Because clearly it's going to be a long night."

...

Margaux closed the front door behind her, slipped off her coat and hung it on the rack beside the stairs. A warm light seeped into the hall from beneath the living room door. She took off her scarf and hung it with her coat before pushing the door open and peering into the room.

"If I wasn't absolutely knackered, I'd be livid," she said as she looked down at the two men sitting amongst a sea of paper. "My nice new living room. My lovely, tidy living room. Do I dare ask _why_?"

"Sherlock had the sudden urge to sort through ten years' worth of post," said John, taking a swig of beer.

"Ah," she nodded, stepping over the mess of letters until she reached her husband. She leant over and kissed the side of his head. "Are you going to tell me why?"

"No," said Sherlock.

"Thank god." She threw herself down on the couch with a tired sigh.

John laughed, returning to pile of envelopes in his hands. "Fed up yet, Marg?"

"Mm, my back hurts and I just got out of breath walking from my car to the front door. But besides that, I'm not too bad."

"You know massage can help with the back pain, you could get Sherlock to-"

"I don't think so." She laughed. "See, that would require him to actually touch me." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have no qualms about touching her. She's being dramatic because I declined her proposition for sex yesterday."

"And the time before that, and the time before that..."

John raised his hands in surrender. "Guys, really don't need to hear about your sex life." 

"Actually, speaking of sex lives..." she folded her arms. "I was on the phone to Rose earlier."

"Oh? How, er, how is she?"

"Apparently you had quite a nice time together the other night."

John straightened his back, broadening his shoulders and clenching his jaw. "Yes. Actually, we did. What's the problem?"

Sherlock grimaced.

"Don't look at me like that! You put _that_ in _there."_ He pointed to Margaux's stomach. "You don't get to act disgusted by sex anymore."

"Did it mean anything?" she asked.

"Why? Does it have to?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Look, I don't know. We understand each other because we're in the same boat as single parents. It's nice being there for each other."

"John, Mary was the love of your life who tragically died and left you a widower. Rose's ex is a dick head who left her for another woman and hasn't seen his kids in years. You're not in the same boat, you're not even in the same sea."

"Does it matter how we got here? We're both on our own."

"What Margaux is trying to so delicately say, is that Rose's ex walked away; their relationship ended and she has moved on. Mary was _taken_ from you; if she hadn't been killed you would still be in love and married to her now. Somewhere down the line, Rose may want a relationship with you that transcends physical connection, and you may not be ready or willing to do that. Therefore you - my best friend - will break Rose - my wife's best friend's - heart. Which will inevitably make dinner parties extremely awkward..."

Margaux and John stared at him in silence.

He turned to her. "Am I correct?"

"Indeed you are."

John sighed. "I hadn't had sex in a really long time. Did you really have to go and ruin it?"

*

Sherlock stood at the bedroom window, looking out onto the dark residential street. The freezing winter's night had made the road a slick black, the streetlights glittering in the frost that lay over every still surface.

Margaux walked into the bedroom holding a lightbulb in her hand like an apple.

"How are the children?" He asked, keeping his eyes on the window.

"Fast asleep. They're holding hands, it's adorable."

She grabbed the lamp on her bedside table and began screwing it in when she felt him come up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and resting his cheek on her head.

"Oh you're touching me now?" she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

He turned her around to face him. "You understand you're being ridiculous, don't you?"

"Am I?"

"You know I love you. I made a promise to myself to say it every day."

"I know you do." She said as she slid her arms around his waist. "Honestly, it's not even really about sex. I just... I want to feel closer to you. When I was pregnant with Vaughan, I thought you were dead; clearly it affected me more than I realised."

He held her by the shoulders, his nose wrinkling slightly as he looked down at her smile, then up to her teary eyes.

"I'm... sorry, if I'm not acting appropriately," he said. "I may already be a father, but I've never done _this_ part before."

She sighed, closing her eyes and lowering her forehead onto his chest. He stood quietly, holding her as she rested against him.

"I..." he began quietly. "I'm still learning how to be everything you need me to be. I spent my entire life building a wall around myself. I forget that a wall works both ways; sometimes I find myself stuck inside of it."

"I managed to fall in love with you from the other side of that wall," she said. "It's okay for you to stay inside of it. It'd just be nice if you could let me in too."

"I let you in," he said. "I just hadn't properly prepared myself for the little guest."

She laughed, tightening her fists into the back of his shirt. He took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly, raising his eyebrows as he felt something nudge his stomach.

"Did you feel that?" she whispered against his lips.

"Was that _her_?"

She nodded.

He bent down on one knee in front of her, raising his hands and placing them on her bump. "I've never been able to feel it before. Not like this."

"It just started happening today." She looked down at him, watching as he stared at her bump in awe. "You can talk to her if you want to."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because babies recognise their parents' voices."

He leaned closer. "Hello... baby. This is Sherlock- I mean, your father." He frowned. "You know, Margaux, it is extremely likely that I'm just speaking to your digestive system." He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening as he felt it again.

"She knows your voice."

He felt Margaux's fingers running through his hair, a wave of calm washing over him as he kept his hands on her stomach. He thought about what she had said, about how she had been alone the last time. How every moment of happiness was clouded by grief. How the bigger she got, the more alone she felt.

He looked up to see her smiling down at him and imagined how it must have felt, to feel a kick, to turn and smile, but no one being there.


	15. The Westbrooks

Guests rose to their feet as the organ began to play. Heads turned, faces curling into smiles as Molly began to walk slowly down the aisle. She was grinning shyly, her already blushing cheeks gleaming with a soft pink that matched her lips. Her white satin dress brushed against the floor as she walked, clutching a bouquet of lilies in front of her. Margaux clasped her hands together in front of her face as she stood in the pews, beaming with pride as she watched Molly join Arthur at the altar.

The church echoed with the sound of shuffling as everyone sat down, before falling into silence as the priest began the ceremony. Margaux knew exactly how it felt to be standing up there; daunting, nerve-wracking, dreamlike. But she also recognised the look of adoration on her face. She smiled and reached for her husband's hand, feeling his fingers wrapped around a phone in his lap. She turned to him and leaned over to peak at the screen, huffing quietly when she saw his thumb scrolling and sorting through emails. She nudged him, catching his attention.

"What?" he whispered.

She gestured to the front where the priest continued to speak. Sherlock rolled his eyes and slipped the phone into his breast pocket.

"Thank you," she whispered, before glancing over him to see their son with his eyes buried in a portable game.

They were as unbelievable as each other. She shook her head, remembering back to that morning.

She had rushed into the living room, smoothing down her dress as it continued to gather unflatteringly around her hips.

"Sherlock," she sighed. "You don't even have your tie on!"

"I'll get to it," he responded, waving his hand dismissively.

He had been submerged in a sea of letters for weeks, spending every spare moment sifting through them diligently.

"Now isn't the time. Get the tie on. Now."

He looked at her from the corner of his eye, his brow raising slightly at the assertiveness of her voice. He stood up and flicked up his collar, picking up the tie and hooking it around his neck.

"What are you doing here anyway?" he asked as he knotted it. "Aren't bridesmaids supposed to be with the bride?"

"I'm not a bridesmaid, remember? She's only having one bridesmaid – her sister."

"You are no match for me!" Vaughan shouted suddenly. "Die, die!"

Margaux looked down at her son. He was sitting on the couch in his neat grey suit, his knees to his chest, his dark wavy hair tucked behind his ears. The bright screen of his game reflected in his pale blue eyes, and she was sure he hadn't blinked in minutes.

The door opened and Mrs Hudson peered around it. With each wedding, her hats were becoming more extravagant. She walked in and perched on the arm of the couch.

"That was John on the phone," she said. "He should be here in a minute, said he took a wrong turn."

"We've lived here for over a month and he still gets lost," said Margaux as she examined herself in the mirror, desperately yanking her dress back into place.

"You seem uptight," said Sherlock.

"The only thing that's tight is this bloody dress."

"Die!" Vaughan screamed.

"Vaughan, that's enough. Turn it off. Now." She turned around to see Sherlock returning to his letters. "And you, don't even think about it."

Sherlock pressed his mouth into a straight line before walking towards her. He bent down, speaking to her stomach. "Your mother is a tyrant." 

Molly turned towards the pews and smiled as the priest pronounced them husband and wife. The guests began to rise to their feet, applauding the couple as they shared their first married kiss.

Margaux struggled to her feet, taking Sherlock by the arm to make sure he was standing too. But with her attention focused on the happiness radiating from the couple, she missed the cold expression on Sherlock's face as he locked eyes with Arthur, just for a moment. She missed the strange energy radiating from their brief connection, Sherlock's eyes narrowing and Arthur's subtle nod towards him as he took his new wife's hand.

*

John took a step closer to Sherlock, standing at his side as he looked out amongst the guests; at the clinking glasses and clusters of conversation. He looked up at him, then down to the phone in his hand.

"She'll kill you if she sees you doing that," he said.

"Just a few more emails while we wait to be seated," Sherlock replied.

"Found anything yet?"

"At this point, the aim is simply to curate a list of rejected cases. Once I have them all in one place, then we can begin to look through them."

A blur of blue and white began to approach them. John cleared his throat, elbowing him gently. Sherlock looked up and slipped his phone into his pocket.

"You should probably smile," John muttered.

Sherlock's face suddenly brightened, and though it was fake, it was entirely convincing.

"Hi boys," said Molly chirpily.

John reached out and kissed her on the cheek. Sherlock observed his behaviour and copied, feeling the soft hairs on Molly's face prick with goosebumps as his lips touched her.

"Congratulations, Molly," he said.

"Thank you." She gestured to the woman at her side. "Er, this is my sister Elizabeth. She wanted to meet you both."

Elizabeth was undeniably a Hooper, with mousy-brown hair and a slender upturned nose. She stood in front of the men in her pale blue bridesmaids dress, her delicate shoulders turning in on themselves with shyness as she waved hello.

John shook her hand before nudging Sherlock in the side, encouraging him to do the same. He took her hand in his and shook it briefly, taking a deep look into her doe-like eyes. 

"It's okay that you hate me," he said.

"I-I'm sorry?" Elizabeth shook her head with a laugh.

"I'm aware you dislike me greatly for how I've treated your sister over the years. It's understandable."

"H-how... I don't, I didn't..."

"Microexpressions. Your face was practically twitching with them. It really is alright, Emily-"

"Elizabeth."

"I don't blame you. I'd hate me too."

"I _do_ hate you," John chimed.

Molly sighed and ushered her sister away before turning back to the two men.

"She seems nice," said Sherlock.

He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, turning to see Arthur by his side.

Molly smiled. "Where've you been?"

"Just chatting. Working the room." He snorted as he turned and stood beside her. "So glad you both could make it."

He extended his arm. John accepted, giving him a firm handshake and a sincere smile. Arthur then directed his hand to Sherlock, waiting.

"Congratulations," he said plainly, his hands remaining firmly behind his back.

"Thanks. And listen, I know you both really care about my wife, so I wanted to assure you that I'll always take care of her."

Molly let out an 'aww' and lay her head on his shoulder.

Sherlock let his eyes glaze over for a moment, freezing them in place to stop them from rolling.

"You better had," John joked.

They all laughed together, except for Sherlock.

"Well she's Mrs Westbrook now so I've got no choice," Arthur joked back.

They doors opened to the hall where large round tables stood draped in crisp white tablecloths. Margaux found her place card and sat down, taking a sip of water, wishing it could be something stronger.

Greg Lestrade sat down beside her, adjusting his tie and gulping down the last of his champagne. She narrowed her eyes at him, as if he were purposefully rubbing it in her face.

"What?" he said with a shrug.

The room began to fill as guests searched for their seats in the bright, flowery room. Mrs Hudson sat at their table and helped Vaughan onto the seat next to her. Margaux smiled at him, raising her eyebrows to ask if he was okay. He put his thumb up before returning to his game.

"So how's William Warren been getting on?" asked Greg.

Margaux looked at him and laughed. "Have you ever noticed we always end up talking about work?" 

"Not the kind of job you can leave at the office."

"True." She nodded. "He seems _okay_..."

"Oh god, what is it?" he sighed.

"Oh, nothing. I just... I find the whole thing a bit unsettling. The guy's 6'3", how the hell do you pluck a guy like that off the street without leaving any evidence, no witnesses? How did they get him to cooperate-"

"Ah, I know that one. Apparently they had some dirt on him. Threatened to out his 'secret' if he didn't comply."

"His... _secret_?"

"I told him he should have demanded he reveal it," said Sherlock as he sat down beside her.

John sat down at the table too, hoisting Rosie up and tucking in her chair.

"He was a witness, Sherlock, not a suspect," said Greg. "We can't force someone to divulge anything they don't want to. You seem to forget sometimes there's a difference between the victim and the culprit."

"Mm, what's the saying? 'Potato, _potato_ '?"

Margaux rolled her eyes and took another sip of water. "I really wish this was a gin and tonic."

"Ah well not long now before you can have one," said Greg cheerfully before reaching over to pat her bump.

Before his hand could make contact with her, Sherlock swatted it away.

"Ow! What the bloody hell was that for!?"

"You should never touch a pregnant woman's stomach without permission," he replied bluntly. "It's intrusive and dehumanising."

Margaux pressed her lips together, trying hard to stop herself from smirking. She looked at Greg with wide, amused eyes and shrugged.

"Technically he's right..." 

"I'll remember that for next time," he said, nursing his stinging hand.

*

The night rolled in quickly, turning speeches to music, flowers to disco lights. John waited at the door, welcoming his plus-one with a smile and kiss on the cheek. He led Rose through the party, pulling out her chair and offering her a drink. She thanked him and sat down at the table opposite Sherlock and Margaux.

"Hi." She waved.

"You look lovely!" Margaux shouted over the music.

"Thanks! So do you!"

"What!?"

"Nothing." she shook her head and laughed.

John returned quickly and handed her a drink. She took a sip and put the glass on the table, letting the cold condensation trickle down onto the tablecloth.

"I'm glad you could come," he said.

"Me too," she replied. "It's like battle of the best friends."

He chuckled into his pint glass. "I'd win."

"You probably would." She smirked at him before looking across the table. "Y'know, I always wondered what it was that brought the two of them together. I mean, yeah, he's a handsome guy and obviously I think she's beautiful too. But beyond shallow attraction, I never really saw a reason for this _deep-rooted_ connection they seemed to have."

John laughed. "You mean you never got what she saw in him."

She looked back over to them, watching as Sherlock leaned over, saying something against Margaux's ear.

"I don't think anyone will ever fully understand what she sees in him." She turned to John. "But I'm starting to think that's the point..."

He nodded with a smile. "He says there's a part of him that 'belongs only to her'. You don't get what she sees in him because he doesn't want you to see." He pointed at Sherlock. "But look, sometimes you can get a glimpse of it if he doesn't know you're looking."

They watched Sherlock whisper to her again, making Margaux burst into laughter and place her palm against his chest. He rested his hand on top of hers, his eyes creasing at the corners with a smile.

"It's quite sweet really, isn't it," said Rose.

"It is. It's incredibly frustrating at times though."

"Did you know she said he's the best sex she's ever h–"

"Why would I want to know that? In what world would I want to know what Sherlock bloody Holmes is like in bed?"

She laughed. "I just thought you might find it interesting! He's so... unassuming, you just wouldn't expect it. Though I must admit, I saw a picture of him in the papers once holding a riding crop, and I imagined him–"

"Whipping a corpse," he interrupted sternly. "He uses the riding crop to assess post-mortem bruising. Nothing else. Please don't finish that sentence."

She patted him on the arm. "Okay, John Watson, whatever helps you sleep at night."

He swirled the ice around in his glass and cleared his throat. "So... Do you and Marg talk about, erm, do you discuss your- your experiences... a lot?"

"Oh yes I told her all about you," she replied brazenly.

"Ah..." His cheeks began to burn.

At a table nearby, Greg folded his arms across his chest, turning to Mrs Hudson sitting beside him.

"So how're you getting on without them?" he asked.

"Oh I'm alright," she replied. "Sherlock's there so much I forget sometimes he even moved out. Oh and I've been walking around naked a lot more than I used to."

"Lovely," Greg sighed.

"Oh look at those two." Mrs Hudson pointed to the large doors at the back of the room.

Greg followed her line of sight, noticing John and Rose sneaking away together. "What is it about weddings that make people go all soppy?"

*

John took her hand as they rushed down the long corridor, giggling and shushing each other as they searched for a quiet, secluded spot. They stumbled upon an empty conference room, with tacky patterned carpet and buffet carts stacked in the corner. Rose took him by the lapels of his suit jacket and pulled him into a kiss.

"I don't think we're allowed to be in here," he said quietly.

"Didn't you ever do anything like this when you were a teenager? Sneak off somewhere with a girl?"

"Yes, but now I'm in my forties and I'm afraid the embarrassment of getting caught would be much worse than if I were eighteen."

She laughed and leaned in again. He kissed her back for a moment, but it felt cold, passionless.

"What's the matter?" she sighed.

He fretted for a moment before speaking quietly. "I don't want to hurt you..."

"Why would you hurt me?"

"I... This was only supposed to be a few friendly catch-ups, a cup of coffee and a bit of company."

"Is that not what we're doing?" She looked at him curiously.

"Not unless you're this _friendly_ with everyone?"   
He raised his fingers to his mouth, wiping the lipstick that had smudged across his lips. "I'm just... I'm sorry, but it's not fair for me to lead you on. I'm not ready. I keep telling myself I am, but the minute I get close to someone, I realise I just... can't."

She laughed softly and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Did it ever cross your mind that I might not be interested in having a relationship with you?"

"You're not?"

"I like being single. Honestly, I just wanted to share notes on Margaux and Sherlock. The kissing and the dating, that was as much a surprise to me as it was to you."

"Oh..."

"We're not going to end up together, John Watson. But it's not because we don't like each other. It's because I don't want to be with _anyone_ , and the only person _you_ want to be with isn't here anymore."

John inhaled deeply through his nose. "Right. Well then-"

Before he could finish, the door began to open. He instinctively grabbed her hand, pulled her around the back of the carts, hiding behind them.

"You've been working with Shuttlecock too long," she whispered.

"Ssh."

They watched through a gap in the carts as Arthur walked in and began pacing the room.

"Do we really have to do this on my wedding day?" he asked, his voice more stern than John had ever heard it.

"Let's not forget, you wouldn't have even had a wedding if it weren't for me."

John recognised the voice that entered the room; slick, precise and oozing with sarcasm.

Arthur frowned in annoyance. "What exactly is it you think you know, Mycroft?"

"I know that all it takes is one word from me, and your marriage to Ms Hooper would be over before it began..."

John and Rose looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

"Are you threatening me now?" said Arthur. "Is this what it's come to?"

"Not so much a threat as it is a reminder."

"Of what?"

"Of what I'm capable of. Of what I know about you and what you've been doing."

Arthur huffed and ran his hands through his hair. "I can't get near him. The man won't even shake my hand. How am I supposed to-"

"Not my problem."

They watched through the gap as Mycroft bowed his head before slinking out of the room, disappearing like smoke through an open window. Arthur sighed, his face falling into his hands, and after a moment, he left too.

"What the hell was that about?" asked Rose.

*

Sherlock took Margaux's hand, coaxing her towards the dance floor. She had never understood how a man so reserved could be so fond of dancing. It was endearing, she thought, as she followed him into the middle of the floor. He tucked her hair behind her ears before letting his hands slide down and rest on her lower back. She reached up, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck as they swayed together.

"I love you," he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

She smiled. "Can I kiss you?"

He glanced around at the crowded dancefloor before nodding discreetly. She pulled him down, bringing his lips to hers for a brief moment.

"You taste like brandy," she said.

"I do? Sorry about that."

"No, I like it. Reminds me of what I'm missing."

He laughed softly, suddenly reminded of the bump wedged between them.

The music lowered as a voice sounded through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, please clear the floor for Mr and Mrs Westbrook's first dance."

They walked to the edge of the dance floor, watching as Molly and Arthur met in the middle and took each other's hands. Vaughan appeared at Sherlock's side and tugged on his trouser leg. He bent down and picked him up, sitting him against his hip as they continued to watch.

Eyes followed Molly and Arthur as they danced together, but something drew Sherlock's away. He squinted slightly as he looked across the room to the blacked-out window, noticing a small gap revealing a view of the car park outside. A car turned on the gravel, its back door opening as someone climbed in.

"Are you going to tell him?" asked Rose as she stood with John at the back of the room. "Now would be the perfect time since Arthur's occupied."

John looked over at his friend as he stood with his son on his hip, his wife on his arm. He shook his head. "No. I can't tell him here, not tonight."

Cheers and applause erupted as the song came to an end. Molly beamed as she looked around at her guests; she was certain she would remember this moment forever.

Sherlock put Vaughan down and waded through the crowd towards John, stopping in front of him with a furrowed brow.

"I just saw something peculiar outside. Care to join me while I investigate?"

John looked over Sherlock's shoulder as Arthur glanced in their direction. "Yeah, er, no thanks..."

"What? Why?"

"I er... just... look, I'll talk to you later, mate, okay?"

Sherlock stood there, still, silent and confused as John walked away from him.

*

Margaux closed the heavy door with her foot and threw her keys on the table beside it. She took off her coat and looked up at Sherlock as he stood with Vaughan sleeping in his arms.

"He's had a long day," she said, brushing the little boy's hair out of his face.

"I'll take him up," Sherlock replied before making his way up the stairs, carrying his son as if he were light as air.

She left the light off in the bathroom, appreciating the milky glow of moonlight pouring in through the window as she cleaned off her makeup. She glanced into the mirror, smiling as Sherlock stepped into the room and walked up behind her.

"Oh good, while you're there you can unzip my dress," she said.

Without a word, his hands found the zip, pulling it down slowly and watching as the fabric parted to reveal her delicate back. He placed his fingers at the base of her neck before running them down the crease of her spine.

Whenever he touched her like that, she was never sure whether he was admiring her or examining her. But when she felt his lips on the back of her shoulder, she smiled.

"Thank you for behaving yourself today," she said.

"You prefer me when I behave?"

"Sometimes. Not always..."

...

Hands tangled in hair as clothes fell to the bedroom floor. Margaux pushed him onto the bed, taking his face in her hands and kissing him, so fervently that he fell onto his back.

"There was something strange about John tonight," he said, laying beneath her as she kissed his face, lips, jaw, neck. "Do you not think?"

"Not particularly," she muttered quickly between kisses.

"I think he knows something. I could tell in the way he looked at me after the bride and groom danced."

"Sherlock..."

"What? Oh no, do carry on, I like it. I'm just thinking out loud."

She sat up straight and blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Do you always think about John when you sleep with your wife?"

"Did you not find his demeanour odd?" He sat upright beside her.

"Rose told me they decided to stop seeing each other. Maybe he was feeling a bit crap?"

"Mm maybe."

She squeezed his face gently in one hand and turned it towards her, smirking slightly as he looked down at her lips. She felt triumphant as he leaned in, steadying himself on his hand as he kissed her, his mouth trailing across her jaw to her neck.

He huffed. "It had to be something to do with me, otherwise why would he look at _me_ like that?"

"Oh my god."

She climbed off the bed and stormed out the room, returning a few minutes later with his mobile phone.

"Call him," she said. "Call him now and find out."

He took it reluctantly, looking down at the number in his contacts list. But just as he was about to call it, the phone began to ring.

He looked up at Margaux. "It's John..."


	16. Lull

Sherlock stood inches away from the one-way glass, peering into an interrogation room where Margaux sat across the table from Arthur Westbrook. He watched closely as she spoke to him, analysing everything from his body language to the way his voice dipped and rose as he spoke. He furrowed his brow as they shared a laugh, his eyes following her as she excused herself from the table and made her way to the door.

She closed it behind her and walked to Sherlock's side, folding her arms and watching Arthur through the glass.

"Go on then," she said. "What have you deduced?"

"He's lying," he replied.

"About what?"

"Something."

"I'm going to need more than 'something'." She sighed and looked up at him. "I can do another five, ten minutes. But after that, I'm going to have to let him go."

"You need to direct the conversation towards the _other_ crimes, try and get him to slip up–"

"Sherlock, he thinks he's here to look over a statement. If I keep asking him random questions he's going to get suspicious."

"Fine, then let me talk to him." He turned on his heels and began making his way towards the room.

"Whoa, hold on," she replied, stepping in his way. "You know I'm not going to let you do that..."

"Why not?"

"Because that'd be entrapment, intimidation, abuse of power, the list goes on."

"Just give me two minutes," he insisted as he tried to take another step forward. "Two minutes and I'll have all the information I need."

"Absolutely not," she almost laughed as she placed her hands on the doorframe either side of her.

She was blocking him, standing her ground. Her large bump forcing a space between them, like a barrier stopping him from barging through.

"Margaux..."

"Don't _Margaux_ me. What you're asking me to do is one hundred percent illegal. I could lose my job."

He glared down at her, the irritation clear behind his glacial eyes.

He let out a huff. "Fine. Just... do me a favour. Go in there and insult the copycat."

"Insult them..." 

"Yes. I want to see how he reacts."

She rolled her eyes. "Okay."

He returned to watching from behind the glass as Margaux stepped back into the room. She sat down and smiled at Arthur who smiled back kindly.

"Sorry about that," she said. "I just had to deal with something. This bloody copycat we have on our hands." She shook her head and laughed. "Pathetic, don't you think? I mean, how _sad_ do you have to be to crave attention this bad?"

Sherlock locked eyes on Arthur as he waited for him to respond. Yet as he finally began to speak, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He turned around angrily. "What?"

"Sorry," said Will, his voice almost shaking with nerves. "Dr Watson's out the front; he's asking for you. Said you weren't answering his calls."

Sherlock shoved his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone. He brought the screen to life, noticing the list of missed calls. He glanced back at the interrogation room and huffed before following Will down the corridor.

*

They passed their time in Baker Street. Spending the rest of the morning working on cases and sorting the last mound of letters. By late afternoon, there were envelopes strewn from the ceiling like bunting, the table stacked high with piles of printed emails.

Sunlight clung to the clouds as evening began to force its way in. Yet still, they remained in the flat, working and talking, exactly how they had done when they both lived there. The only difference now was the two children playing downstairs with Mrs Hudson.

"Tell me again." He turned his finger in the air as if he could rewind time.

John sighed. "'I can't get near him. The man won't even shake my hand.'..."

"And then?"

"And then Mycroft said: 'not my problem.'"

Sherlock turned to the window and looked out over Baker Street. He ran his hand across his jaw, feeling the beginnings of stubble scratching his fingertips.

John walked across the living room and sat down in an armchair. "Mycroft asked me to keep an eye on you. I said no, obviously. So maybe he asked Ar–"

"Why would he ask someone I barely know?" he turned to face him. "Why would he say he has the power to ruin his relationship with Molly?"

"Well I doubt she'd take too kindly to the idea of him spying on you."

"Mycroft knows something." He walked slowly to his chair and sat down opposite him. "This case, whoever this copycat is, he knows something about them that _we_ don't."

John looked around the room, at the walls plastered with letters like wallpaper. "All these years, I thought we were helping people," he said. "I never realised how many we... didn't."

"It would be impossible to help everyone," Sherlock replied.

"I know. It's just sad seeing it all laid out like this."

"That's the point." He stood up and began to wander around the room. "They're angry, John. Trying to direct my attention to the people I've failed. The ones I ignored." He waved his hands around. "They're in here somewhere, waiting for me to find them."

"Mm." John shook his head and stood up, joining him as he circled the carpet. "They don't seem like the 'waiting' type."

He looked down at him with a raised brow.

"They've been too quiet," he continued. "Don't you think?"

"Quiet with us, yes. Which is why I'm almost certain they've made contact with my brother."

Mycroft appeared in the doorway, hands in pockets, his face smooth with a misplaced calmness. "I'd be lying if I said you weren't correct."

The two men turned to him and watched as he stepped into the flat. Behind him, Mrs Hudson appeared holding a tray of tea.

Sherlock looked at her. "You could have announced his arrival," he said.

"I'm your landlady, love, not your receptionist."

"A receptionist," Sherlock pondered. "That's not a bad idea..."

She rolled her eyes and placed the tray on the table.

"Hang on," John began as he turned to Mycroft. "You said he was correct?"

Mycroft nodded. "I'm sure you remember when I told you the data from Dr Watson's website had been stolen..."

"Yes?" Sherlock replied.

"Well the paper copy reappeared."

"It did!?"

"Nailed to the front door of my home." He looked his brother in the eyes. "This was attached to it." He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a photograph.

Sherlock took it from him and unfolded it. "This is..."

"A picture of myself and Vaughan at your wedding."

"What?" John took the picture to see for himself.

"What was it you said back then?" Mycroft continued. "Ah yes, that's right: 'He told you nothing would happen today, and he was right.' And what did I say to that?"

"You said: 'Just because we're not aware of it, doesn't mean it hasn't happened.'..." said John, dropping his head slightly.

Mycroft turned to Sherlock. "It is quite a burden, to always be right."

"They were at my wedding?" he muttered to himself.

"Yes. And now they've put a very clear target on your son and I. Which is why I decided to take your investigation into my own, more capable hands." 

"Is anyone there!?" A desperate voice called from the staircase. "Oh god, please, god no!"

The three men exchanged a confused look as the sound of footsteps charged up the stairs. They turned to see Margaux run into the room.

"Sherlock!" She shouted, as if she could burst into tears at any moment.

"What?" He asked bluntly. "What's the matter?"

"Oh my god, Sherlock!" She ran to him, grabbing his arms and touching his face like she didn't believe he was real. "You're alright! You're-"

"Margaux, calm down. Try to catch your breath," he said.

"What's happened?" asked John.

"The news! It's all over the news," she cried. "I was in Picadilly Circus. The screens. The big screens. The news- They're saying you're dead!"

"What!?"

"Oh my god," she whimpered. "I thought you were..."

They watched as she dropped down to the floor, resting on her haunches and taking shallow, painful breaths.

"She's hyperventilating," said Sherlock, joining her on the ground. "Margaux, it's okay, breathe." He stroked her head as he spoke, placing his other hand on her large stomach and rubbing it gently. "It's alright. I'm alright. There must be some kind of misunderstanding-"

"Sherlock..." John interrupted.

He looked up from his wife as John held out his phone. The screen bursting with Tweets, articles, headlines. All reading the same thing: 'Sherlock Holmes Is Dead'.

"I told you they'd been too quiet."

*

Mrs Hudson looked around the living room. She hadn't seen Baker Street so busy in months. She sat down on the couch beside Margaux and handed her a glass of water.

"Feeling better?" she asked.

Margaux nodded. "I'm fine, it was just a panic attack. John checked me over and he doesn't seem concerned."

"Little one moving about?"

"She never stops."

They shared a giggle, their conversation interrupted as Greg entered the room.

"Right," he began. "We've got the news under control. They've stopped running the stories and they're going to be issuing statements tonight saying it was a hoax."

Mycroft stepped forward holding his phone. "I have a team tracing the origin of the claims to find out who started the rumour."

"Great," Greg nodded. "In the meantime, Sherlock, we're going to need you to make a public appearance."

Sherlock turned around slowly, his back straight, hands on hips. "What?"

"We're setting up a press conference-"

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock... This is about damage control. You've faked your death before, we need you to go out there and publicly refute the idea that this was _your_ doing. The press and the public need to hear from your mouth that this was a hoax and it had nothing to do with you, or people are going to be angry. The last thing I need is calls for an inquest into your... conduct."

"My _conduct._ "

He rolled his eyes. "Can you just... let me _actually_ do my job for once?"

Sherlock sighed.

"Actually," said John. "A press conference could be good. We all know this was the copycat, right?"

"Of course it was. What better crime to copy than the one I committed myself?"

"Is faking your own death really a crime?" asked Mrs Hudson.

"Pseudocide isn't technically illegal," said Margaux. "But it's virtually impossible to do it successfully without breaking tons of other laws."

"Oh dear."

"Margaux Holmes, everybody, the human encyclopaedia of crime," said Mycroft sarcastically.

"As I was saying..." John continued. "It'd piss this guy off, surely, to see Sherlock announce to the world that this was nothing more than a silly hoax."

"Or just antagonise him; risk the chance of him doing something else. Something worse," Sherlock replied before pausing for a moment. "Excellent. Let's do it."

*

Darkness fell over Baker Street. The streetlights drowning out the stars in the inky black sky. Bright camera lights flashed like fireworks as the crowd rumbled with anticipation on the pavement outside. Journalists and news crews pushed for a good view while police officers made a barrier around the bottom of the steps.

Sherlock stood in the hall near the front door, leaning in to listen as more people poured onto the street. He turned back to everyone as they waited; watching John pace back and forth chewing the inside of his cheek, Greg sitting on the stairs with Margaux, talking quietly.

"I don't like that she's here," said Sherlock.

"Having a pregnant wife by your side is a good move to get the press to like you," said Greg. "Makes you seem more... human. If that's even possible."

Margaux smirked as Sherlock let out a frustrated growl.

The door to Mrs Hudson's flat creaked open. He glanced over to see Vaughan peering around it, a worried look on his face.

"Can I come with you?" the little boy whispered.

Sherlock shook his head and forced a smile. "Who's going to watch Rosie and Mrs H?"

"But-"

"No, son. I'm just going out to talk to some people and then we'll go home, okay?"

A woman in a fitted suit opened the door. "They're ready," she said.

He turned back to his son, pressed his finger to his lips and winked at him.

"Right, we keep it short, simple, to the point," said Greg.

"Yes, yes." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively as he walked back down the hall towards the door.

They walked out onto the front steps, blinking as their eyes adjusted to the flashing lights. Greg stepped forward, addressing the crowd as Sherlock, Margaux and John stood behind him. Margaux reached for his hand, feeling the tightness in her chest ease slightly as he weaved his fingers through hers. 

"You'll now hear from Mr Holmes himself who has prepared a statement," Greg finished before stepping aside and gesturing for him come forward. 

"He's not good with speeches," Margaux muttered to Greg. 

"I know, I was at John's wedding, remember." 

"I don't think any of us will ever forget," John added.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "It- mm.... It was brought to my attention earlier today that my supposed death was being reported by multiple media outlets. I am- I am here to assure you all that I had no part in these rumours, and this has been nothing more than a childish hoax." 

"Where's the hat!?" A reporter shouted from the back of the crowd. 

He rolled his eyes and continued. "I am aware that the faking of my death many years ago has been met with much criticism. So... I am here today to make it- to..." He huffed, trying to remember what he had been told to say. "To make it clear that I am very much alive, I had no part in this hoax and I wish for you all to pay it no more attention." 

Margaux leaned forward. "Say thank you," she whispered. 

"Thank you," he said. 

The crowd erupted with voices shouting his name and asking questions. He ignored them, turning around smoothly, taking his wife's hand and returning inside the building. 

*

Margaux ran her hands back and forth beneath the warm, soapy water, scooping it into her palms and pouring it over her belly which protruded from the water like an island. She lay her head back, resting it on the rim of the bath as the steam loosened her muscles, evaporating the tension stashed in her joints. She slid down and tipped her head back, letting the water soak her hair.

A tap against the bathroom door made her rise back up, wiping the water from her eyes. 

"Yeah?" 

The door opened and Sherlock stepped inside. 

"Are you okay?" he asked softly, his voice deep like the crackling of a bonfire. 

"Yeah I'm okay, are you?" 

"No, I mean are you okay... After what happened today..." 

She took a deep breath through her nose before exhaling with a smile. She turned her head to look at him as he leaned against the doorframe. 

"Have you noticed that one of us almost dies every couple of years?" she said. 

He put his hands in his trouser pockets and let out a slight laugh. "Technically, I _didn't_ almost die today." 

"No but there was a good hour or two where I thought you had." She sat up, folded her arms on the edge of the bath and rested her chin on them. "It was horrible." 

"I'm sorry." 

"I was running around, driving like a lunatic, crying, panicking... All I could think was 'my god, if he really is dead, the last thing I ever did was fight with him over an interrogation.'"

"See, you should have just let me in the room with him." 

She giggled, taking a scoop of water and splashing it at him. "You're a bastard." 

"I love you too." he said matter-of-factly before leaving the room. 

*

A loud ringing startled them awake. Margaux felt his arm disappear from around her as he sat up and reached for his phone. 

"What time is it?" she mumbled sleepily. 

"Half past three," he replied. "Go back to sleep, I'll just be a moment." 

She felt his weight disappear from the mattress, the sound of their bedroom door opening and closing as she drifted back off to sleep. 

...

She rolled over and reached out for him, opening her eyes to find an empty space where Sherlock should have been. She sat up and checked the clock on her bedside table. 4am. She climbed out of bed and made her way downstairs. 

The house was pitch black and eerily still as she walked slowly down the hall. She noticed the dining room door was ajar, approaching it slowly and pushing it open. She flicked on the lamp, squinting in the light, and found him sitting there. His head in his hands, his phone on the table in front of him. 

"Sherlock?" her voice was hoarse and tired. 

He looked up at her slowly, his eyes dark and intense. 

"Why were you sitting in the dark?"

He remained silent. 

She walked forward and lowered herself onto a chair opposite him, reaching her hands across the table to him. 

"Love, what's the matter?" 

He looked up at her again. She had never seen him like this - so tired yet so sad - so sad it worried her. He ran his finger over his phone, speaking slowly and quietly. 

"That was Mycroft who called." He paused. "She's... she's dead." 

Margaux suddenly found herself holding her breath, staring at him, waiting for him to speak again. 

"Eurus. Apparently one of the guards took it upon themselves to inform her of my 'death'. She took her life before the news got out that it had been a hoax. Strangled herself with a string from her violin."

She finally exhaled, the breath shaking as it left her lips. She rubbed her thumb over his hand, trying desperately to think of something to say as he bowed his head. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered. 

"What?" she furrowed her brow. "What are you sorry for?"

"She... She destroyed so many lives, caused so much pain and sorrow." His head remained stooped as he spoke. "She... almost took you away from me. I shouldn't feel so-"

"Sherlock, she was sick but she was still your sister. It's _okay_ to mourn her." 

The room fell silent again, just for a moment, until a soft sobbing escaped from his hidden face. Margaux struggled to her feet and walked around the table, approaching the back of his chair and wrapping her arms around him. She buried her face in his neck, holding him tight, not daring to say a word. 

She wasn't sure how long she had been holding him, all she knew was that after a while he had become quiet - his body calm, his breathing slow. He raised his head and turned it in her direction, allowing her to kiss him softly on the cheek and again on the temple. 

"Come to bed," she said. "You should rest." 

He slid his chair out and turned to face her, his eyes level with her bump. He sighed and placed his hand on it before nodding. She took his hand and walked with him to the bedroom.

Sherlock got into bed and curled up on his side as Margaux climbed in and shuffled up behind him. 

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I wish I could take your pain away." 

He reached behind him and took her arm, pulling it over him and bringing her closer. He closed his eyes, allowing the feeling of his daughter kicking against his back to lull him back to sleep. 


	17. Another James

The helicopter soared above the choppy water, leaving Sherrinford behind; alone and uninviting on its rocky island. The Holmes' sat quietly strapped in their seats, their ears protected by large headsets – a stark contrast to their formal black attire.

They called it a funeral. But there were no guests, no flowers or comforting hymns. They had stood in a clinical room on a lower level of the prison, listened as a priest gave a short, impersonal sermon, and then they watched as her casket was taken away. Even when Eurus was alive, she hadn't existed; she was a secret, a ghost, nothing but a shell of the daughter and sister from their childhood. So, like a shell, all they could do was throw her back to sea, store her away as a memory and continue with their lives.

"At least she's finally at peace now," said Mr Holmes, resting a hand over his wife's as she gazed out the window.

"I take it you don't believe in hell, then?" said Sherlock bluntly.

"Sherlock!" His mother snapped her head around, her bright blue eyes glaring at him.

"Sorry," he mumbled reluctantly.

The helicopter rode over a wave of turbulence. Everyone gripped their seats until it passed.

"What she did was terrible. Unforgivable," said Mrs Holmes. "But she was a little girl once – _our_ little girl. That's who I'm grieving for, not the monster she became. You'll know exactly how I feel when your own daughter is born." She turned back to the window. "She was just... lost."

"Mm," Mycroft nodded. "For many years, we resided to the fact that she was indeed lost completely. But she took her own life because the thought of Sherlock being dead was too much for her to bear. Makes you wonder..."

"She may have taken her own life, but it was still murder," said Sherlock.

His parents looked at him with frustration and Mycroft rolled his eyes, as if he knew this were coming and had hoped they'd be closer to home when it did.

"Don't you all look at me like that," Sherlock continued. "The whole time we thought the copycat was trying to antagonise me by telling the media I was dead. But really, they knew that the news would find her. They did it to hurt me. To take something from me in the most callous way–"

"But why? Why would anyone want to do such a thing?" said Mr Holmes.

"Because I didn't help them when they needed me. In their eyes, I ruined their life."

"It's preposterous," said Mycroft. "Eurus' death was simply the result of a terrible sequence of events."

"Nothing this person's done so far has been accidental or by chance. So why would this be?"

*

"No suspect contact," said Margaux with a sigh. "Basically, a fancy way of saying I'm useless until you can ship me off on maternity leave."

Will laughed into his laptop, glancing over the screen as Lestrade leaned forward and placed his hands on her desk.

"More like a fancy way of saying you're almost _nine months pregnant_ and we don't want to put you at risk."

"Technicalities," she replied, reaching into a bag of crisps and throwing one in her mouth.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Just... sit and eat your bloody crisps, will you."

She chuckled to herself as he walked away, before turning back to Will with a smile.

"So, Roberts will go through his strategy with you before the interrogation," she said. "But we should probably still go over the info on the suspect now so you're fully briefed."

He nodded, looking down at his watch. "Okay, fancy packing all this up and going to that café up the road? You can brief me over lunch?"

She pressed her lips together awkwardly.

He sighed. "He wouldn't like the idea of us going for lunch together, would he..."

"Erm... what on earth has given you the impression that I do _anything_ my husband tells me to do?"

He laughed. "He hates me."

"No!" Margaux cried, her tone entirely unconvincing. 

"Look," Will began, stammering slightly. "I'm not soft, I know he thinks I've got something to do with this copycat thing. He's been suspicious of me since we first met."

"It's not _you_ personally. It's just... anything or anyone he can't immediately deduce, he questions. You saw a pattern where he only saw chaos – he's used to it being the other way around."

"Control."

"Hm?"

"Oh, nothing, he just... It sounds like he needs to feel like he's in control."

"Well you don't need to train as a CSI to figure _that_ out," she replied, crunching on another crisp.

*

John walked up the Baker Street stairs, turning on the dark landing and making his way into the living room. He saw Sherlock standing looking out over the street below; his black suit and dark hair turning him into a silhouette amidst the sunlight pouring through the window.

"Mrs Hudson called to tell me you were back," said John.

Sherlock turned around, his hands full with letters.

John cocked his head and sighed. "Take a day off, mate. You're still wearing your funeral suit for god's sake."

"Had no time to change," he replied as he sifted through the letters. "I wanted to utilise every second of time."

"Sherlock, not to get all 'shrinky' on you, but did you ever think maybe you're using this as a distraction from grieving?"

"Grieving for what?"

"Your _sister,_ you robot!"

"Oh, right, yes," he shrugged. "I've already grieved. All better now." He flashed a quick, empty smile before sitting down at the table.

"Oh _really_?"

"Yes, really. Ask my wife – I cried and everything."

John pressed his tongue against the inside of his cheek, shaking his head as he sat down next to him.

"So... so far I've managed to separate the letters into eight categories; age of case, nature of query, rejected, ignored, referred to police – which might as well be in the ignored pile," he quipped. "Attempted and never solved, male client, female client."

John stared down at the meticulously organised piles in front of them.

"Then," Sherlock continued, speaking rapidly and with a precision that only came from being on the edge of a breakthrough. "I cross-referenced them."

John leaned in closer, his eyes following the lengths of fine, red string that had been pinned and crisscrossed over the piles. "Jesus," he mumbled.

"Nope, _Sherlock._ " He waved his hand over his work, pointing to the connections he had made. "These lines represent connections to one or more of the cases; both the original and copycat. _This_ section here is letter-writers who match names and initials of guests from my wedding, or people with connections to people who attended the wedding. Following?"

"Barely."

"I've disregarded letters from women because William Warren specifically said he heard a male voice through the earpiece and the person referred to himself as 'he'."

"Okay," John took a deep breath. "So, who's the copycat?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw, baring his teeth with an irritated grimace. "I don't know."

His mobile phone began to buzz against the table, he picked it up, rolling his eyes as he looked at the screen.

"Yes?" he answered plainly.

"I have received information regarding your death hoax," Mycroft's voice sounded through the phone, cool and controlled.

"Go on..."

"The hoax originated in a phone call made to the Daily Telegraph, and then another to the BBC. Both were made that morning," he paused. "From Scotland Yard."

"What!?" said John as he leaned in.

"Have I been on loudspeaker? You know I dislike being on lou–"

"Mycroft, shush," Sherlock interrupted. "You are certain the call was made from the station?"

"Without question."

He hung up the phone, rising from the table and beginning to pace back and forth.

"Well, can you factor in people from Scotland Yard? Or is it back to the drawing board?" asked John.

"On the contrary," he turned to him, his back straight, his frame long and elegant. "That has confirmed a theory."

John watched as he began rummaging through the piles, pulling out letters and holding them between his teeth.

"Are you going to explain or do I have to sit here and watch you like I'm at the theatre?"

Sherlock took the letters from his mouth, his curls falling into his eyes as he spoke breathlessly. "Arthur was at the station that morning talking to Margaux."

"Shit."

"Indeed."

He dropped to his knees on the living room floor, spreading out the letters and reading over each one quickly. Finally, he stopped on one. The paper was yellowed and flimsy, the writing angular and disjointed. He held it up in front of his face, his eyes falling on the bottom of the page.

'Sincerely, A.W.'

"A.W," he muttered softly. "Arthur Westbrook."

John took the letter. "Sherlock, look at the date..."

"I know, John. September."

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. I'm a huge fan of yours and have always dreamed of meeting you, however I never thought that would be under these circumstances._

_Mr Holmes, my mother went missing on the 4th September, almost two weeks ago. I have tried to get help from the police but they don't seem to want to help. You see, my mother has had issues with drugs and this isn't the first time she's gone missing. They see it as the boy who cried wolf, they're convinced she'll turn up again eventually. But something is different this time. She has completely vanished without a trace – the only way I can describe it is that one minute she was there and the next she wasn't. Something isn't right and nobody will help me._

_If you could at least agree to meet with me, I could provide you with all the information I have. Please help me, Mr Holmes, she's the only family I have left._

_Sincerely,_

_A.W._

"You ignored this?" said John quietly.

"The envelope hadn't even been opened," he admitted, his voice laced with guilt. "It must have been thrown in a folder, or at the back of a drawer and forgotten about like countless others."

John cleared his throat. "Well, I'm guessing his mum didn't come back..."

"Arthur's mother wasn't at his wedding, did you notice?"

*

Margaux sat at a desk in a small room with a row of monitors in front of her. She leaned back in her chair, resting her hands on her round stomach as she watched the live feed of the interrogation in the next room. She listened closely as Roberts continued to press the suspect for answers, smiling proudly as she noticed Will taking diligent notes and following the technique properly.

She watched the suspect shrug, refusing to answer another question and sighed. This was going to take a while. She stood up and stepped out of the room, slipping her phone from her pocket as she walked down the hall.

"Hello darling," he answered, his warm, rich voice bringing an instant smile to her face.

"Hi, how are you? How did it go?"

"It went as you'd imagine any funeral for an inmate of a high-security facility whose mere existence is a government-kept secret..."

"Ah. Well I'm sorry I couldn't go. You know if I was allowed to fly I'd have been right there with you."

"At the funeral of the woman who shot you?" 

"Mary shot _you_ and you went to _her_ funeral..."

"Touché."

She laughed and leaned against the wall, crossing her arm over her chest. "I was actually calling because it looks like I'm going to be late home from work, I wanted to see if you'd mind picking Vaughan up from school."

"Can't. Sorry."

"What do you mean you can't?"

"We're on a case!" John's voice chimed in from the background.

"Do you have me on loudspeaker!?" she asked.

"No! Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Never mind that. Why can't you pick him up?"

"John already told you, we're on a case."

"Sherlock, what have we said about putting cases before our child?"

"I know, I know. I'll have Mrs Hudson collect him, okay?"

She huffed. "Alright. Well, whatever you're up to, be safe."

"Always am. Mm, no, that's a lie."

She giggled. "I know it is. I love you."

"Love you too!" John shouted. "Ow! Sherlock, there was no need to elbow me!"

"I love you too, Margaux," said Sherlock before the line cut out.

She put her phone back in her pocket and began walking back to the room.

*

The doorbell rang. Arthur put his steaming mug of tea down on the coffee table. He stood up from the couch, straightening his shirt as he made his way to the front door. He opened it with a smile, his eyebrows raising slightly when he saw Sherlock and John on the doorstep.

"Sorry gents, Molly's not here."

"We're not here for her," Sherlock growled before stepping towards him. 

Arthur began to back up into the hall, tripping over his own feet as Sherlock continued to herd him into the living room. John closed the front door and followed them in, standing with clenched fists as he watched him almost cowering in the corner of the room.

"Tell me where you got the poison for the perfumes," said Sherlock.

"What?"

"How did you know about the yellow smiley face?"

"Mate, I..."

"I'm not your _mate_." He enunciated every word with slow, piercing precision. "Charlie Owens? The study in pink? The earpiece? _Eurus_?" 

Arthur glanced between the two men. "What's Eurus?"

"John saw you at your wedding talking to my brother. Did he find out your secret? Try to get you stop?" He grabbed him by the scruff of his collar.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you..." said Arthur, his feet barely grazing the carpet as he hung in his grasp.

"Or what?"

Mycroft stepped into the room, clicking his umbrella on the floor like a cane. "Or you'd find yourself looking _exceedingly_ stupid."

Sherlock turned around, his brow furrowing as he laid eyes on his brother.

"I'm afraid, baby brother, you have it all wrong. So wrong it's actually rather impressive."

"But it has to be... September. Molly. The photograph of my son and–" he turned back to the man still hanging from his fists. "You're A.W."

Mycroft shook his head and rubbed his eyes with his fingers before turning his gaze to Arthur. "Would you like _me_ to tell him?"

He didn't reply.

"Arthur Westbrook isn't his real name..."

John narrowed his eyes, his head whipping back and forth between the three of them. "What now?"

"I'm not an architect, I'm an MI6 operative."

Sherlock lowered him to the ground, keeping his grip firm on the collar of his shirt.

"Mr Holmes sent me undercover when the copycat stuff started. To keep an eye on you, protect your friends and family, report back on any leads you may find – Didn't expect you'd be so hard to get close to."

John stepped forward. "This is going to break Molly's heart," he hissed. "How could you _marry_ her for the sake of a _job_?"

"I married her because I love her! Honestly! I was..." he looked at Sherlock. "I started hanging around St Barts, trying to get information. I met her by chance, found out she knew you and asked her on a date. But instead of _using_ her like I planned to, I fell in love with her."

Sherlock stared into his eyes; unblinking, boring through him. "He's telling the truth..."

"Of course I'm telling the truth! I actually went so far as to change my name legally, just so she never had to find out I'd lied. Would I give myself a name like Arthur bloody Westbrook if I didn't love the girl?"

Mycroft sighed, resting his palms on the handle of his umbrella. "You're relieved from this case... Arthur."

"Yeah, thanks." He mumbled, straightening his collar and storming out of the room.

Sherlock turned to Mycroft and John. "How could I have gotten it so unbelievably wrong?"

"There's a first time for everything," John quipped.

"It doesn't make sense." He curled his fists into his own hair. "If not him, then who?"

*

Margaux hoisted her bag onto her shoulder and stretched her thick cardigan around her bump, keeping it in place with folded arms. She picked up a folder of work, looking at it for a moment before changing her mind and leaving it on the desk. Sherlock had a hard day, she thought, she wanted to be there for him – no distractions.

She left the building, taking out her car keys as she walked across the carpark, taking a moment to look up at the stormy black sky and feel the droplets of fine rain on her face.

"Goodnight, Margaux!" a voice echoed in the breeze.

She turned around as she reached her car, noticing Will waving as he walked along the pedestrian path. She waved back with a smile before climbing in and bringing the engine to life.

She hummed to the radio as she backed out of her space and began to drive, slowing when she passed him and rolling down her window.

"You okay?" she called.

He bent forward, folding his exceedingly tall frame just to look through the window. "Yeah, just waiting for a cab."

"A cab? Isn't that expensive getting one all the way from here?"

He shrugged. "About £20."

"Get in. I'll drive you home."

He blinked at her and shook his head. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, come on get in."

They drove for a while, listening to the radio and talking about the interrogation. Even late at night, the London traffic was heavy and loud, with bright lights and beeping horns as people fought to push their cars into other people's lanes. As they reached outside the city, the drive became smoother, calmer. The roads slicker with the light rain, the sky moodier with the threat of a storm.

"So, do you feel ready to go it alone yet?" she asked.

"I don't think I ever will."

"I felt like that. I finished my PhD and went straight into being a forensic investigator. No mentor, no on-the-job training, nothing. They also took the piss out of me a lot. 'Little miss doctor thinks she's better than everyone else'."

"Eh, they were probably just insecure."

"Oh no, I did think I was better than them. They were all really bad at their jobs."

Will laughed, resting his elbow on the car door. "What did your parents think of you getting into a career like forensics?"

She glanced at him for a moment, her thick brows coming together over her eyes. "Oh, Will, I thought I'd mentioned to you that I don't see my parents. I'm emancipated."

"Oh, sorry. I don't know why I didn't remember that."

She cleared her throat, trying to brighten her tone. "It's okay. What about _your_ parents? Are they proud?"

"Well I never knew my dad, and my mum's dead, so..."

"Oh god, Will, I'm so sorry."

"S'alright," he gave her a reassuring smile.

But she didn't feel very reassured.

"So," she said. "Am I best just driving straight up here?"

"Yeah, just keep going this way." He kept his focus on the road ahead as he spoke. "Do you think it's why you married Sherlock? Because he was like another case for you to solve?"

"Erm..." She wanted to tell him his question was rude. But something stopped her. Instead she let out a laugh, the most convincing one she could muster. "Maybe. I saw through the cold exterior and I liked what was on the other side. It took a bit of time to break all the way through, but it was worth it. Obviously." She patted her bump. "Are you seeing anyone at the minute?"

"Nah, got my hands full, I'm too busy." He leaned his head back on the headrest. "Why doesn't he like me really?"

Margaux sighed. "Will, I honestly don't think he dislikes y–"

"From the second I met him, it's like he looked down his nose at me."

She could hear the tension rising in his throat, like magma threatening to erupt from his mouth.

"He... He looks at everyone like that," she said. "It's just one problem on the long list of things I need to work on with him."

"It's like he thinks he's above people. People come to him for help and it's like he gets off on playing god–"

"Will, I know you're upset but that's my husband you're talking about. Drop it."

He rested the side of his forehead on the window. "I'm sorry, Margaux."

"It's... It's okay. I know the way he's treated you is wrong. But I don't think this copycat case is helping anything. He's been so uptight and obsessed since it all started. It's like another James."

"James?"

"Oh er, Jim. Jim Moriarty."

Will inhaled, a slight smile tugging the corner of his mouth. "Wow," the word left him in a breath. "I'm flattered."

Margaux didn't say anything for a moment, the only sound coming from the radio and the pattering of rain on the windshield. Suddenly, her brow furrowed.

She turned to him. "What?"

"Hm?"

"You're... _flattered_? Why..." her voice trailed into nothing as her chest suddenly felt hollow. She stared straight ahead, her hands gripping the steering wheel.

Will reached over and turned off the radio. "You should probably stop the car," he said calmly.

She flicked on her indicator and pulled over on the side of the road. She pulled the handbrake and switched off the engine before turning slowly to face him.

"Will..." she said, her voice shaking.

*

Sherlock sat on a stool at his kitchen island. He was staring straight ahead, absentmindedly twisting his wedding ring on his finger. He was missing something. One of the links he had formed that lead him to Arthur was wrong. Or perhaps, he thought, there was a link somewhere he still hadn't factored in.

The kitchen door creaked open. He looked down and watched as Vaughan walked in, dressed in his pyjamas and rubbing his sleepy eyes.

"Daddy..."

"What's wrong, son? You should be in bed."

"Why isn't Mummy home yet?"

He lifted him onto his lap. "She's working late. It's okay, she'll be back soon."

"I don't like going to sleep when she's not here."

"I know," he sighed. "Neither do I."

"Can I stay in your bed until she gets back?"

Sherlock carried his son upstairs and helped him climb into the large bed, the thick duvet swallowing him like a tidal wave. He changed into a T-shirt and a pair of pyjama bottoms before climbing in beside him, curling onto his side and feeling Vaughan cuddle against his back.

He lay awake in the dark, unable to switch off his thoughts as they danced around his head; shuffling the pieces of the case like a deck of cards.

He remained still, his head resting on Margaux's pillow, allowing himself a moment to breathe in the scent of her perfume that clung to the fabric. His eyes stayed open, fixed straight ahead at the dresser that stood against the wall. Then suddenly, his mind became quiet.

He got up and hurried to the dresser, sliding open Margaux's underwear drawer and digging through until he reached a small velvet box at the bottom. He turned to see Vaughan sleeping soundly and rushed out of the room, running down the stairs and back into the kitchen.

He slid open the cutlery drawer and pulled out a knife before taking the old, vintage-looking necklace from the box. He placed the edge of the knife against the painite stone and prised it away from the base metal until eventually, it popped out, clattering onto the marble counter. He looked down at the necklace where the pendant once sat, and his heart stopped.

There was a small picture of a woman - sandy blonde hair, hazel eyes - and a name. Jane Warren.

Suddenly, he felt himself falling, plummeting deep into the confines of his mind palace. He took a breath and began to search, as if archives of footage and articles were soaring past his face. He dismissed them with his fingers, shuffling, zooming in, swiping them away until he found it.

Jane Warren. Disappeared in September. Found dead the following September in a field. She leaves behind a son. Adam Warren.

He zoomed in on a picture of the boy's face. He knew that face.

"Will?" he whispered, opening his eyes and finding himself back in his kitchen.

His phone was ringing on the counter. He picked it up.

"Hello?"

"Sherlock, it's me."

"Lestrade?"

"Listen, we had calls of a woman sleeping in a car parked suspiciously on a dual carriageway. We had officers attend the scene and it's Margaux."

"What? Why would she-"

"Sherlock, she looks like she's been beaten up."

He felt his legs give way, placing his hand on the counter to steady himself.

"Her face is bloodied but they've managed to wake her up. She's being taken to hospital now."

He didn't reply.

"Sherlock? Do you need one of us to come and get you?"

Lestrade paused. "Sherlock! Are you still there!?"

"Y-yes... I'm here. Send a car."

"Who the hell would do something like this?"

He hung up and placed the phone on the counter, picking up the small piece of painite and squeezing it in his palm.


	18. I Am You

Sherlock hurried down the hospital corridor, pushing past police as they convened outside the ward. He was worried, yet he still noticed them looking at him; their eyes scanning his T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, stunned to see him looking anything less than perfect.

He made his way through the ward and pushed back the curtain surrounding Margaux's bed. She was sitting up, her legs dangling over the edge as she talked to Greg who sat in a chair beside her. He could tell the nurses had tried to clean her up, but there was no hiding the blood dried into the collar of her shirt, the bruises beginning to darken across her face.

"Margaux," he breathed as he approached her, taking her face gently in his hands. "Are you alright?"

"I'm okay," she replied, placing her hand over his as it cupped her cheek.

"Are you certain? What about the baby? Is she- is everything-"

"Don't worry, they did an ultrasound when I got here and everything's fine."

He closed his eyes, breathing out a sigh of relief.

"Sherlock, I know who it is - the copycat - it's-"

"William Warren."

She nodded.

"What did he do to you?"

"He made me stop the car. I tried to talk to him, ask him why he was doing this. I tried to tell him he could stop all of this and I could help him. He said it was too late for that." She stopped for a moment. "I asked him if he was going to kill me. He said he'd thought about it-"

Sherlock let out a growl.

She placed a hand on his chest to calm him. "But he didn't."

"No, he just beat the shit out of you instead," said Greg, finding it hard to hide his own anger.

"He knew I wasn't just going to let him leave; I work for the police, I had the authority to arrest him. So he elbowed me in the face." She gestured to her swollen nose and split lip. "I think he was expecting it to knock me out. So when he saw me trying to reach for the door, he hit me again in the side of the face, and everything went black."

"So you have no idea where he went?" asked Greg.

"She said he knocked her unconscious, how could she know where he went..."

"It's just a question. He's killed people, yet he left her alive _knowing_ she'd be able to identify him as the copycat."

"Yes but he's obviously proving some kind of point. He leaves clues, riddles, breadcrumbs. Nothing he does is accidental. If he wanted Margaux to be another clue, he'd have made sure of it."

"Look at your wife, Sherlock!" he gestured to her face. "Do you really think he did this for any other reason but to antagonise you?"

"I'm very aware of what he has done, thank you, and you'll hope to find him before I do if you want to bring him in alive. But I have to look at the trail, I must assess the-"

Margaux cleared her throat. "Would you like a _professional's_ opinion?"

The two men looked at her, falling quiet as she raised her eyebrows at them.

"By all means," said Sherlock reluctantly.

"I think knocking me out was his way of sparing me. I think the plan was to get close to me, use me as access to Sherlock and then kill me as a final act of hatred towards him. What I don't think he expected was to actually like me; no matter the intentions, he _had_ to develop a relationship with me, which he did, and it made it hard for him to go through with it. But by that point, he'd already revealed his identity to me. So he knew the only way to get away from me without being followed or chased, was for me to not know where he'd gone. Knocking me unconscious was a mercy. It shows he's not completely lost it. Not yet."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You're suggesting he's actually a _decent guy_?"

"I'm suggesting he's of sound mind. Which means he's aware of what he's doing; he's in control of his actions."

"Right," said Greg as he took out his phone. "I better get back to trying to find this guy."

They watched as he pressed the phone to his ear and walked away. Sherlock took the curtain and slid it closed around them.

"You know these things aren't soundproof," said Margaux.

"You know where he's gone," he said quietly.

"I don't know where he's gone. But I'm pretty sure you have the answer, he's just waiting for you to find it."

He stood in front of her, looking closely at the damage Will had done. The bruising around the side of her head, the cut on her cheekbone and the dried blood around her nostril. He ran his thumb extremely gently over the edge of her swollen lip.

"Promise me you're okay," he whispered.

"Well it feels like there's a marble in my lip." She pushed her tongue against the open cut. "But I could probably manage a kiss..."

He sighed, leaning forward and kissing her softly. She winced slightly, hiding it with a smile as he pulled away and stared down into her eyes.

"I'll find him," he said.

"I know." She nodded, before glancing through an opening in the curtain, at Greg pacing back and forth on the phone. "They're trying to find him too."

"I need to get to him first. If the police find him before I do, I'll never get the chance to talk to him."

"Do you _need_ to talk to him?"

"If this is to be put to rest then I need to know why."

She sighed, wrapping her arms around him and spreading her palms out over his back. "Just remember that _we_ need _you_. More than _you_ need to know _why_."

"You come first. All three of you. That's why I need to find him."

*

John awoke to a thudding at the front door. He sat up in bed and looked at the clock beside him. He clambered out of the sheets and trudged downstairs muttering swear words to himself as he went.

He opened the door and let Sherlock inside, squinting slightly as he watched him wandering around the living room.

"Are those... pyjamas?" John grumbled sleepily. "Have you come here in your pyjamas?"

"It's Will," said Sherlock bluntly.

Suddenly he felt very awake, as if he had been plunged into a pool of ice water. "Wh... what do you mean? Are you sure?"

"He attacked Margaux."

"What!? Is she okay?"

"Yes, yes she's fine. But the police are trying to locate him. We need to get to him first."

John thought about arguing with him; telling him to let the police handle it, to go and be with his wife and wait for it all to blow over. But he knew that wasn't how Sherlock worked. The copycat had weaved their way into his mind, like an infection, they were eating away at his thoughts, threatening to steal his control. So he went upstairs and got dressed, packed a bag for Rosie and lifted her gently out of bed.

"We can take her to Mrs Hudson," said Sherlock as they walked down the garden path. "She's already watching Vaughan so what's another child?"

John rolled his eyes as he closed the garden gate behind him, struggling to keep up with Rosie in his arms. "And after we drop her off," he began. "Where to then?"

"To my home so I can get dressed, obviously."

"And then..."

"Jane Warren's body was found in a lavender field around fourteen miles from here."

"You think he's waiting for you in the place his mother was found?"

"Look at everything he's done so far, John. He's symbolic. Where else would he go?" 

*

Morning was creeping in, the sun rising in a cold, purple sky. John zipped his jacket up to the collar and stuffed his hands in his pockets, palming the handle of his gun. Sherlock glared across the open field, the sheets of lavender swaying gently, their sleepy perfume drifting in the breeze.

They trudged across the field, neither saying a word until Sherlock stopped and looked down.

"This is where the body was found," he said, pointing at the unremarkable patch of dirt beneath his feet.

"Sherlock..."

He looked back up to John, following his gaze until he finally laid eyes on Will. He was standing several feet away from them, so still he could have been mistaken for a scarecrow in the dim, early morning light.

"It's nice," Will began calmly. "For once, to look at you and know that you _actually_ see me."

"Mm, forgive me for skipping straight to the point but you knocked my pregnant wife unconscious so I'm not really in the mood for chit chat..."

"Yeah, sorry about that. Could've been worse though."

Sherlock remained composed, his back straight, feet firmly planted on the ground. John glanced up at his face, at his smooth, emotionless expression.

"The police are looking for you," said Sherlock matter-of-factly. "I haven't told them where you are because I wanted to give you the moment you've so obviously dreamed of."

Will laughed. "What moment would that be?"

"The one where you finally get to tell me why you did this."

"You know why I did this."

"No. That's where you're wrong. See, I know that your mother went missing and you reached out to me for help, and I know that she was later found dead. Obviously you blame me for that. But becoming a murderer, throwing your life away just to get under my skin. The 'why' is still a mystery."

Will pondered for a moment, chewing the inside of his cheek with an almost-grin. "I am you."

He narrowed his eyes.

"I'm a mirror, reflecting back onto you the truth about why you do what you do," Will continued.

"That's why you changed your name from Adam to William."

"As I said... I am you." he smirked. "Let's face it, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you don't do what you do for the people. You do it for the thrill. The people you help, they're just a byproduct. Your real fascination lies in the bad guys... So I became one."

"You really did all of this for attention?" John interjected. "You murdered people. Destroyed lives."

"Collateral damage." He shrugged.

"You're deranged."

"It's funny, Dr Watson, how quickly you jump to defend your friend. He's the reason your wife is dead. Do you not begrudge him of that?"

"Mary made a choice that day," John replied through gritted teeth. "She chose to save him. You can't begrudge him for a choice _she_ made."

"No, I don't. On the contrary, I begrudge him for a choice _he_ didn't make."

"To save your mother," said Sherlock. "And you realise that even if I had helped you, there would have been others I didn't help as a result? Or do you only care because it was _your_ case I didn't take? Surely that makes you just as selfish as me."

Will paused for a while. "As I said... I am you." He bent down and picked a sprig of lavender, lifting it to his nose and inhaling its scent. "I was a huge fan of yours, Mr Holmes. I actually decided I wanted to become a detective because of you. I followed Dr Watson's blog, read about you, even wrote about you in essays at college. I admired you completely." He threw the sprig to the ground and crushed it beneath his foot like a cigarette. "My mum had a psychotic break; went off the rails and disappeared. I wrote to you. You never responded."

"Because the letter got lost amongst the piles of post I was receiving. I didn't reject your case because I never saw it."

"That I could understand. But what I can't understand is how you have no recollection of meeting with me in your flat on Baker Street..."

"Sherlock," said John. "What's he talking about?"

"I... I don't know..."

"When I didn't get a response and my mother still hadn't returned, I decided to be proactive. I went to your flat, you made me _pitch_ my case like it was some kind of audition. I begged you for help."

"I- I don't remember..."

"Of course you don't remember. Anyone could tell you were high as a kite. Couldn't focus, couldn't keep still, didn't care. You injected yourself in front of me then you shooed me away. You told me my mother's disappearance wasn't _interesting_ enough." He spoke slowly, each word dripping with venom.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling slowly out of his nose.

"They found my mum's body the following September, right here in this field. She'd only been dead for a few hours. That's 365 days she was missing and alive. 365 opportunities for you to help find her and instead you swanned about cherry-picking the most interesting, ego-feeding cases. I'd see you getting all this glory in the press for them and it made me sick. So I picked up my studies, graduated, changed my name to William - thought it was fitting, after all, you're no better than the villains you chase. So I turned you into one - Then I became a police officer to try and get close to you, so that when I started replicating your cases I'd have an inside look at the investigations. Then one day..." he giggled to himself. "Call it destiny... I attended a crime scene in a warehouse. A murder for hire that wasn't a murder for hire at all. And I see this beautiful, angry woman storm out of the CSI tent, and then there you were, following behind her like a puppy. And there was a baby in your arms. So I turned to the officer next to me and he tells me that's Margaux Cave, and that little boy in the deerstalker hat is your son. And I thought wow, I'd been planning everything for so long, how could I not take that as a sign? An invitation to move up the ranks and get close to you. So I went and got my Masters degree, went back to working as a police officer and waited patiently for CSI training. Asked for Margaux personally."

"Don't rise to it," John muttered as he noticed Sherlock's body tensing.

"Why 'a Study in Pink'?" asked Sherlock calmly.

"It was a starting point. A practice run," Will replied.

"The attack on Charlie Owens outside the theatre?"

"It was a way to show you I knew details about you that a regular stranger wouldn't. Like people you went to uni with, the things you paint on your living room walls - Margaux's a sentimental soul by the way; keeps pictures of her family on her desk at work."

"The smiley face was in the background..."

"Correct."

"And of course there was no one on the other end of the earpiece that day in the house..."

Will laughed. "I deserve an Oscar, don't you think?"

"Why? Why risk exposing yourself like that?"

"Well not everything always goes to plan. I'd banked on you figuring out the necklace first, then maybe the other cases would have made sense quicker. When I realised things weren't clicking for you, I wanted to see where you were up to, talk to you myself."

"You sent a Painite necklace."

"Yeah, do you have any idea how hard it is to source!?"

"How did you know about that case? John never wrote about it."

"Your lovely wife, again. Granted, she only told me about an imposter and a rare stone. But that was enough for me to go on when I searched through police records. I read every detail. They missed out the part where you took her home and slept with her though-"

Sherlock took an angry step forward, feeling John's arm holding him back.

Will raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, listen, I only learned that part myself when your very drunk best man mentioned it at your wedding... See, I could've done something bad at your wedding. But I chose to be a guest instead. Great opportunity for research; a glimpse through the callousness of Sherlock Holmes. Makes identifying weaknesses a breeze. Like Margaux's lack of family, your secret admirer Molly Hooper, your absent sister, god rest her soul - though I doubt she had one." 

Sherlock let out a growl and lunged for him again. Will reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun, pointing it at him with a steady hand. Sherlock stopped, stepping back slowly until he returned to John's side, looking down to see he had drawn his gun too.

Will pouted his bottom lip. "Aw, is your sister a sensitive topic?"

"You killed her."

"Inadvertently, I guess you could say so," he shrugged. "But then in that case, it's fair to say you killed my mum." He turned his attention to John. "Are you going to lower that?"

John kept his arm straight, his gun pointed. "I'll think about it when you lower yours."

Will turned the gun on himself, holding it below his chin. "Is it true that Jim Moriarty shot himself on that roof?"

"You're not going to shoot yourself," said Sherlock.

"Why not? I've lost everything anyway. By now I know the police are on their way, your wife's sitting in hospital with my fist imprinted on the side of her face..."

"You're not going to shoot yourself. You said yourself, you are me. I would never pull that trigger."

Will began to laugh. "You know, the whole time we've been here you haven't even said sorry."

"You lost your right to an apology when you killed innocent people to prove a point."

"It's a valid point though, Mr Holmes. You don't do what you do because you care-"

"No, _Mr Warren_. But you're missing quite a large factor... I never claimed to."

John felt a chill scuttle down his spine. He was no longer standing next to Sherlock Holmes: his friend, his best man, his daughter's uncle. He was standing next to Sherlock Holmes: the sociopath. And it was terrifying.

The sound of sirens began to ring in the distance as flashing blue lights came into view beyond the edge of the field.

"You really don't care, do you?" said Will. There was a quiver in his voice. It was the first time they had heard him waver.

"Believe me, I have spent a long time trying to," Sherlock replied. "I'm afraid I'm just not wired that way."

There was a moment of silence between them as the sirens grew louder, the cars screeching to a halt as police began to pour out onto the field.

"I did all of this," Will breathed. "And you haven't learned anything?"

"Sorry to disappoint you." He widened his eyes, speaking chirpily. "Oh, there you go. I just said sorry."

Will's mouth fell open slightly. He tightened his grip on the gun and aimed for Sherlock's chest. But before he could pull the trigger, he found himself falling to the ground, a searing pain radiating from his shoulder.

He looked up to see smoke billowing from the barrel of John's gun, a soldier-like sternness on his face.

*

Greg slammed the ambulance doors shut, watching as it drove away with Will handcuffed to the bed inside. He made his way over Sherlock and John as they stood nearby, scratching the back of his head.

"Well that's that," he said.

"Mm," Sherlock replied.

"Makes you angry, that he was right under our noses the whole time. Such a bright lad, thrown everything away over a grudge."

"Yes, well there's obviously some underlying issues there. If everyone resorted to murder when they felt hard-done-by, the human race would find itself extinct."

Greg chuckled. "I've spoken with the hospital, they let Margaux go home a few hours ago."

"Excellent, thank you."

"And I've called your brother..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, sighing like a teenager.

"Something tells me we'll be handing William Warren over to MI5, never to be seen again."

"Mm, corruption, lovely," said John sarcastically.

Greg laughed, giving them both a nod before walking back to his car.

John looked up at the cloudy blue sky, shielding his eyes and drawing in the scent of lavender. He took a moment, letting it calm him down, before Sherlock began to speak.

"I know it's uncomfortable for you when you come face to face with the reality of who I am. It's uncomfortable for me too."

He turned to look at him, watching as he stared off into the distance, his pale blue eyes skimming the sea of lilac and green.

"You really just... don't care?" he said. "The people that come to us for help, you don't empathise with them at all?"

"No. I thought that was obvious."

"Yeah but, I see the way you are with your family. Even the way you are with me, Molly, Mrs Hudson... How can you say you don't-"

"There are people I care about, John. People I love dearly. But I can't pretend that my affection isn't selective, because it is." He looked over at the ambulance disappearing over a dip in the road. "If I could go back in time and help him, I would."

"Because you feel bad for him? Or because it would've avoided all of this?"

"Whatever answer you want me to give."

They began to walk towards the car that was waiting to drive them home.

"I care about you, Sherlock," said John as they walked.

"And I, you, John."

*

Birds chirped outside the bedroom window, bringing a sign of morning to what had felt like an endless night. Margaux rolled over in bed, slipping in and out of sleep like she had done for hours, when suddenly, there was a sound from downstairs. 

She walked down the stairs and pushed open the living room door, the sound of the violin becoming louder and more clear. She leaned against the doorframe and watched as he played. It was how he processed things, how he calmed himself down or focused his mind. She felt like she had encroached on a moment he hadn't meant for her to see; so private and intimate, a conversation between himself and the strings.

He turned around, stopping quietly when he saw her. She could see his eyes travelling across the bruises and cuts, the guilt in his face more painful than anything she had felt that night.

"Moonlight, Beethoven," she said. 

"It was," he nodded.

"Beautiful."

"Thank you."

She stepped towards him. "Is it over?"

"Yes, we caught him. It's over."

She took a deep breath, exhaling with relief. "Did you get your 'why'?"

He nodded, reaching out and stroking his fingers gently over her swollen cheekbone. "I'm so sorry," he whispered.

" _This_ was not your fault."

"I could have prevented it."

"No, don't be silly, don't..." she took his hand and lead him to the couch.

He sat down beside her, placing his hand on her bump and letting out a sigh. "I was reminded today of who I really am. I didn't like what I saw."

"What did you see?"

"Someone who doesn't care," he looked up at her. "About people."

"You care about us..."

"Yes, after much persuasion."

Margaux laughed and batted his arm gently.

"I fear there could come a time when I revert back to the person I used to be," he said. "The person I was before you, the children, before John. If I lose who I am now, I will most certainly lose you."

"I won't let that happen."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because you're still the same person you've always been. You've just... updated a few settings. The fact that you're even worried about this shows that you're not a bad person. You never have been."

They sat on the couch together for the rest of the morning, comfortably quiet in each other's company. They had forgotten what it felt like to not have a case looming over them, like a raincloud threatening to break. For the first time in over a year, they could see clear skies again.


	19. Flora

John stepped through the front door, closing it behind him with his foot. He jangled his keys in his hand as he jogged up the stairs, whistling to himself as he went. He walked down the landing and turned into the kitchen, glancing down at the table strewn with chemistry equipment as he walked to the fridge.

"Not going to find any human remains in here, am I?" he called out as he opened it.

The fridge was sparse. John looked over the shelves with a frown; there was a tray of labelled vials on the top shelf, a questionable Petri dish, a half-eaten punnet of grapes and a bottle of orange juice.

"No milk. Great. Right, I'll go down and see if Mrs Hudson minds making us some tea."

He closed the door and turned around, stopping when he saw a man standing in the middle of the living room.

"You're not Sherlock." His brow furrowed as he stepped closer. "Is... Sherlock, is he here?"

"I'm not sure, sir," said the man awkwardly. "I have a problem I was hoping Mr Holmes could help me with. Your landlady told me to just... come up."

John looked around for a moment. "So Sherlock, he hasn't- you haven't seen him yet?"

The man shook his head.

"Right, erm, have a seat," he gestured to the clients' chair between the two armchairs.

The man sat down as John took out his phone, wandering back into the kitchen as he made the call.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered.

"Yeah so I know your job isn't exactly conventional, but Friday is still classed a working day..."

"Mm, yes I'm aware of that but I'm busy."

"Doing what?"

"Well let's see; I've spent the majority of my morning battling with a pile of wood and an instruction manual."

John stifled a laugh. "Wait, you... _you're_ attempting to build something?"

"The choices were between building the cot for the nursery or installing the car seat. Somehow I've ended up doing both because Margaux's decided to start having contractions."

"Wait, she's in labour!? Why aren't you panicking?"

"I did panic at first. But it's been two days and they're still mild and irregular so I got over it."

John rubbed his chin and turned back to the living room where the man sat waiting. "Right well, there's a client here. What shall I do?"

"You've been doing this long enough to take the reigns."

"What? You're suggesting I take the case alone?"

"Go for it," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "'I trust you', 'you can do it', 'I believe in you' and whatever else people say..."

"Right," he paused. "Okay well keep me posted I suppose."

"Likewise."

John put his phone in his pocket and walked over to Sherlock's armchair. He sat down, giving an awkward, straight-lined smile.

"Shall I just... go?" asked the man.

"Er no, no, Mr Holmes has put me in charge of your case."

"Really? But aren't you just like... his blogger?"

John crossed one leg over the other, clearing his throat to hide his annoyance.

*

Sunlight poured through the window, casting a warmth through the kitchen and reflecting off the shiny marble counters. Margaux stood at the sink looking out into the back garden, at the spring flowers blooming, the tree shedding blossoms like snow across the grass.

"Mum can I play my game?" asked Vaughan as he sat at the island, pointing at the console just out of reach.

"Why don't you go outside?" she replied. "Look at that weather, you could play on the swing."

He looked at her and huffed, his round cheeks framing an unimpressed expression.

"Hey, do you have any idea how much I'd have loved this when I was your age? I didn't even have a back garden, let alone a full swing set, slide, playhouse-" she stopped for a moment, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow. "Did you just roll your eyes at me?"

"I played outside at school today. Three whole times," he said, holding up three fingers enthusiastically. "I just want to play my game."

Margaux sighed. She picked up the console and handed it to him. "You are definitely your father's son."

She watched him hop down off the stool, his eyes buried in the screen. She turned back to the sink and began washing the dishes, stopping for a moment when a pain began to radiate from her back to her stomach. She sucked in the air through her teeth, letting out a quiet 'ow' as she waited for it to pass.

"Is that the baby again?" asked Vaughan, his eyes remaining on his game.

"Mhm."

"Do you think you could keep her in there until Monday?"

The pain began to subside. She turned to face him with a confused look. "Why?"

"Because if the baby's born on Monday I win five pounds."

"Vaughan." She laughed. "Have you been making _bets_?"

He shrugged.

"Who with?"

"Mrs Hudson," he said plainly. "And uncle John."

She raised an eyebrow.

"And daddy."

"Mm." She rolled her eyes. "Go and play your game."

He wandered out of the kitchen, stepping aside as he passed Sherlock in the doorway.

He was sweating; collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up. She looked him up and down as he stood with his hands on his hips.

"Next time," he began. "We're getting someone to build everything for us."

Margaux let out a laugh as she leaned back against the counter. "Talking about a 'next time' when I'm in the midst of contractions is not very appealing."

He walked towards the french doors, looking out through the glass at the back garden. She watched as he ran his fingers through his damp hair, brushing it back out of his face. He blew out a breath and undid an extra button on his shirt in an attempt to cool down.

She found herself staring. "Maybe I could be swayed..." she said absentmindedly.

He didn't seem to notice her ogling as he turned to look at her, his eyes falling to her large, round stomach. "Are they getting any closer?"

"Nope. Still coming and going as and when they please."

"This is a lot less dramatic than they make it seem."

"Sorry. I know you can't resist a bit of drama."

*

Saturday morning brought an end to the mild spring heatwave. John climbed out of the taxi into a windy, grey rainfall, shielding himself with his coat as he walked down the street. He pulled a crumpled note from his pocket, trying to read it as rain speckled the paper and the ink began to run.He looked up as he reached the address on the note, his eyes narrowing as he read the sign above the door. He stepped inside the shop, the bell jingling as the door opened and closed.

"Hello?" he called out.

No one answered. He looked around nervously before beginning to browse the shelves. Magic sets, fancy dress costumes, joke gifts. It was like a joke shop from an old movie.

"Can I help you?" a voice startled him.

He turned to see a woman appear behind the counter. He cleared his throat as he approached her.

"Y-yes erm, I'm working on a case for Mr Milligan..."

"I'm sorry, Mr Milligan's dead."

"Oh, no, Mr Milligan Junior. David."

"Oh," she giggled to herself as she picked up a set of keys from beneath the counter. "You must be Sherlock Holmes. Funny, I expected you to be..."

"Taller?"

She nodded.

"I'm not Sherlock Holmes," he laughed gently. "I'm Dr John Watson, his... colleague."

"Oh right." She walked towards the back of the shop, gesturing for him to follow her. "Is Mr Holmes busy?"

"Er yes, actually, his wife is expecting. Could be any day now."

"Oh," she sighed with a smile. "How lovely."

"It is indeed. So, Mr Milligan told me about his father..."

"Oh yes, absolutely dreadful. I was beside myself."

He watched as she unlocked the door, leading him through to the stock room.

"Were you the one that found him, er...?"

"Nina."

"Nina."

"I was the one that opened the shop that day, but it was the police that knocked the door down and found him. Simon was always so cheerful, I mean, he dedicated his life to running a joke shop! He was the last person you'd ever expect to kill himself."

John looked around the stock room, inspecting the shelves and the piles of boxes, the faint stain on the concrete floor.

"I told them it was too soon to reopen the shop," Nina continued. "I know they don't want to lose business, but there's something eerie knowing there was a dead body in here just a couple of days ago."

"You said he was a cheerful man. But is it possible he could've had enemies? Any secrets, anyone he'd wronged?"

"You think he was murdered too? Dr Watson, he shot himself in the head. They found him with the gun in his hand. The door was locked from the inside and there was no one else in here."

John looked around. There were no windows. He ran his hand along the brick wall at the back of the room. "His son seems adamant he didn't do it to himself," he said.

"Well David's in shock. It's understandable, he lost his dad. I'm sorry I just think he's in denial."

John pointed to a picture on the back of the door. "Is this him."

"Yep that's him."

He stepped up to the picture, his nose almost touching the glass. His eyes trailed the image of Simon Milligan; a thin, tall, grey-haired man standing in front of his shop. John looked at his smile, then down to his hands, bent and curled into painful fists.

He tapped the picture with his finger. "Was he always like this?"

"Oh, mm," she nodded. "He had awful arthritis in his hands and his knees. The last few years he couldn't even use the till - his hands wouldn't open up for him to press the buttons."

"Right." John pressed his mouth into a straight line. "So... if he couldn't even uncurl his fists, how do you suppose he locked a door, picked up a gun and pulled the trigger?"

Nina's mouth opened slightly, as if the realisation had ran down her spine like a chill. She looked down at the ground where Mr Milligan's body had been found, then back to John.

"But how?"

Hours had passed. John had remained in the room for the entire morning, searching every inch of space from the ceiling to the individually packaged stock. He was determined to figure it out; partly because he wanted to help catch a murderer, but mostly because he wanted to rub it in Sherlock Holmes' face.

He assessed every possibility. A trick gun, tampered door hinges, a hiding spot where the killer could have waited until the police broke into the room. Nothing.

Finally, he swallowed his pride and took out his phone.

"You require my help," Sherlock's familiar, deep voice sounded through the phone.

"How did you know?"

"I looked over the details of the case last night. I assumed you'd call eventually."

John huffed. "Can you come?"

There was a pause.

"Text me the address," Sherlock finally replied. 

* 

Vaughan lay on his stomach on the plush carpet of the landing. Margaux peered out of the bedroom to check on him, smiling as she watched him engrossed in his game, talking to himself as he played.

She returned inside, lifting a large bag out of the wardrobe and placing it on the bed. She unzipped it and began going through everything inside, checking and double checking that everything was there; baby clothes, blankets, toiletries. She bit the inside of her cheek as the feeling that she was forgetting something overwhelmed her. She looked over the bed at her nightstand, noticing the small pot of lip balm on the side, and began making her way around the bed to get it.

She stopped suddenly as she felt another contraction. It was an intense, searing pain that knocked the air from her lungs. She leaned forward, holding onto the bed as she tried to breathe, closing her eyes until it passed. And as quick as it came, it had disappeared again. She stood up and continued, walking up to her nightstand before another contraction overcame her. She sat on the edge of the bed, inhaling deeply as the pain travelled from her stomach down her thighs.

"Oh dear," she said calmly before grabbing her phone.

*

John took a step back, shielding his eyes as Sherlock swung a large, heavy sledgehammer at the brick wall.

"You better be right about this," said John as the brick began to crumble.

"It's the only explanation," he replied. "A man is murdered in a locked room with no way out. So if the killer couldn't escape..."

"Then they must still be here."

"Look at the markings on the ground, John. The room has been made smaller."

Sherlock raised the sledgehammer again, but before he could bring it down on the wall, his phone began to ring. He sighed and handed the hammer to John, swapping places with him as he answered the call.

"I think it's time," Margaux's voice was shaky.

"What?" Sherlock replied, straining to listen over the sound of John demolishing the wall behind him.

"The contractions are getting stronger," she replied. "And they're coming quickly. You need to come home. Now."

Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed.

"Are you seriously deliberating about whether to come home or not?" said Margaux.

He turned around to see the wall fall apart. Bricks clattered onto the floor, a cloud of dust surrounding them. "Of course not. I'm on my way," he replied coolly as he stared down at the dead body of Mr Milligan's killer hidden behind the rubble.

*

Mycroft closed his umbrella, shaking off the rain and folding it down neatly. He gave a supercilious smile as the door opened, the smile fading as he laid eyes on Margaux. She let him inside, leaning back against the door and breathing heavily, until the contraction passed and she was able to speak again.

"Vaughan!" she called. "Uncle Mycroft's here, get your things and come downstairs."

"I don't intend to make a habit of this babysitting thing," said Mycroft.

"You'll be fine. He loves spending time with you, god knows why."

Mycroft allowed a slight grin. "I see labour hasn't affected your sarcasm."

Vaughan hopped down the stairs. His favourite teddy in his arms, his backpack on his shoulders. "Hi Mycroft," he said said excitedly.

"Hello, little one. Come on, let's go."

"Wait, where are you going?" asked Margaux.

"To my home... Where I have agreed to house your son until further notice..."

"You can't just leave me here by myself-" She stopped, wincing as the pain began to fade back in.

Mycroft watched her for a moment before turning to his nephew. "Why don't you go and play upstairs until it's time to go?"

Vaughan looked at his mother, his brow furrowed with worry.

"I'm okay, Vaughan. I promise. Just go upstairs, okay?" she forced a smile.

Mycroft watched as he returned upstairs, waiting until he was gone before turning his attention to Margaux.

"Perhaps I should take you to the hospital," he said, following her into the living room.

"No. Sherlock's on his way. I'm waiting here."

"Are you sure that's wise?"

"I'm sorry, do _you_ have a uterus?"

He rolled his eyes.

"Ah!" She closed her eyes and keeled over.

Mycroft reached out, catching her by the arms, unable to hide the discomfort on his face.

"Margaux, it's clear you need to go to the hospital."

"I'm not going anywhere until Sherlock gets here."

Mycroft sighed, holding her full weight in his arms. "It's not about whether he's going to come or not. It's-"

"No, it is about that. Because last time, he didn't come. No one did." She looked up at him. " _You_ didn't come. I called your office, I told you I was in labour and you didn't come. I stood in labour on the side of the road and hailed a taxi to the hospital. My friend came but she kept having to leave because her kids were at home. Where were you?"

"I... I paid for you to have a private room."

"Yes and I lay in that room alone, in agony, for twelve hours. When they'd come in to check on me and see me crying, they assumed it was because I was in pain. But it wasn't. It was because he was gone."

He didn't know what to say.

She stood upright and composed herself before resting her hands on the arm of the couch and leaning forward. "I'm not going anywhere without him. I'm staying here until he gets back, so the least you can do, Mycroft, is come here and rub my bloody back."

He stepped forward reluctantly, placing the palm of his hand on her lower back. It was as if he was afraid to touch her, as if his skin would ignite like a match under the friction.

"Harder, please," she said. Her voice ragged as she groaned in pain.

He grimaced, increasing his pressure as he stood behind her.

She let out a cry.

"Margaux..."

"I'm fine," she snapped. "It's-"

"What? It's what?"

"Oh... I think my water broke."

He recoiled, looking her up and down. She turned to face him, recognising the panic in his face that he was desperately trying to hide. She took a breath and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Help me upstairs," she said.

"Why?"

"So I can get some dry clothes."

He nodded, taking her hand and leading her out of the room. "I draw the line at helping you get changed," he said.

*

Sherlock burst through the front door, blinking rapidly as he saw his son sitting on the bottom step of the stairs. He was wearing his backpack, his eyes focused on the game in his hands. Vaughan glanced up at his father before pointing behind himself. Sherlock nodded and hurried up the stairs.

Mycroft stood on the landing, arms folded as he leaned against the wall. Sherlock looked around, a crease forming on his forehead.

"She's in there," said Mycroft, pointing to the bathroom.

The door opened. Margaux stepped out wearing a pair of leggings and a t-shirt, her old, wet clothes in her arms. She looked at Sherlock, noticing his eyes falling to the bundle in her arms.

"My water broke," she said plainly.

Mycroft stepped towards his brother, fixing his tie and looking at his watch. "Four minutes apart, fifty seconds long. Now, if you don't mind..." he began to walk down the stairs.

"Mycroft," Sherlock turned to him. "Thank you. For not leaving her."

"Believe me, I tried to."

Margaux gave a gentle laugh before grasping her stomach and crouching to the floor.

"Come on, little one," said Mycroft as he reached the bottom of the stairs.

Sherlock listened as the front door closed. He turned to Margaux and lifted her to her feet. She gestured to the bedroom. He nodded and rushed in, collecting her bag and hoisting it onto his shoulder.

He helped her downstairs, walking her out of the house and opening the passenger door of her car. She climbed inside, letting her head fall back against the headrest, and closed her eyes. She heard the front door shut, followed by the slamming of the boot, then finally, the car door opened and Sherlock slipped in behind the wheel.

The car sped out of the driveway onto the street. Margaux turned to Sherlock, her eyes trailing from his face, down his arms to his hands gripping the steering wheel.

"When was the last time you drove a car?" she asked, her voice laced with concern.

"Erm," he thought for a moment. "Years ago, before I faked my death, John and I went on a case to Dartmoor - mutant hound turned out to be a hallucinogenic chemical. Anyway, we rented a Land Rover."

She looked at him with a raised eyebrow, noticing the smile as he spoke.

"It's a very scenic place," he continued. "I quite enjoyed driving around and-"

"Okay, we'll have plenty of time to reminisce about your romantic getaway with John _after_ the baby's born," said Margaux.

He glanced down at her, watching as she writhed in pain. "Sorry."

"It's okay. I just realised I've never seen you drive before."

He looked at her again.

"What?" she asked.

"You're not as loud and _screamy_ as Mary was."

She laughed. "Give it time."

He turned onto a busy road, the car rolling to a halt in the midst of traffic.

"Oh god," she cried.

It had only been ten minutes, but to Margaux, it felt like hours. She had curled onto her side, resting her sweating forehead against the cold window as she hummed and swore under her breath.

Sherlock was talking. More than he had ever talked before. She was sure he was nervous, though he'd never admit it. She looked over her shoulder at him as he continued to speak.

"So the killer shot Simon Milligan, then took an overdose and bricked himself up behind a fake wall. Genius!" he looked at her. "Don't you think?"

"Mhm."

"Oh, sorry, is it finished?"

"Yep."

He checked his watch. "That was sixty seconds. Still four minutes apart."

The traffic began to disperse. Margaux felt the car moving forward and let out a relieved sigh. Sherlock reached out, placing a hand on her thigh.

"Almost there," he said. His voice was deep and smooth, wrapping around her like a safety blanket.

She relaxed slightly, bracing herself for the next contraction.

*

Neither of them liked hospitals. From the clinical atmosphere to the distinctive scent that hung in the air; hospitals reminded them of pain, loss, fear.

Sherlock sat in a chair in the corner of the delivery room, watching his wife as she leant forward, resting her hands on the bed. She was groaning in pain, sucking on gas and air, her t-shirt rolled up and a monitor strapped to her stomach. The faint thumping of a heartbeat echoing from a monitor nearby.

"I feel like I should be doing something," he said.

"Can you tie my hair back?"

He rummaged through her bag and pulled out a small elastic loop, examining it for a moment before deciding it was, in fact, a hair tie. He made his way over to her, scooping her dark, wavy hair into his hands and tying it gently into a ponytail.

"Will that do?" he asked, waiting for a moment. "Margaux?"

"I need the drugs," she said.

"I'm not sure I have the authority to administer-"

"Sherlock. Get the bloody midwife."

He pressed a button on the wall and within minutes, a midwife knocked on the door and walked into the room. She helped Margaux onto the bed and examined her, shaking her head sympathetically as she looked at her.

"You're too far along," she said. "We can't give you anything now."

Margaux burst into tears. "That's what they said the last time," she cried.

The midwife laughed gently and patted her on the leg. "You're almost there."

"They said that too and I was in labour for twelve hours."

Sherlock watched as the soft-spoken woman left the room, and suddenly he was alone again, with no idea what to do. He had researched everything, but nothing had prepared him for the feeling of utter helplessness as he had no choice but to sit and watch his wife writhe in pain.

"I don't know what to do," he said quietly.

...  
  
  


"Okay, Margaux, it's time to start pushing."

The words made Sherlock's body go cold. He stood beside the bed, his eyes glossy, his face still like marble. One of the midwives glanced at him, a clear look of concern on her face.

"Don't mind him, it's his first time," said Margaux, breathing heavily as she lay on the bed.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she turned to Sherlock. "I didn't realise you were a first time dad."

He looked down at her and forced a smile.

"Oh he's not," said Margaux. "We have a son. But he couldn't make it to the birth because he faked his own death-"

Sherlock patted her on the head. "Alright, Margaux darling, why don't we stop talking and focus on your breathing..."

They helped Margaux into position - on her back, knees bent. Sherlock stood by her side and took her hand, his heart thudding as he looked down at her. She was exhausted, in pain, her cheeks flushed, lips cracked. She met his gaze with teary eyes, a mix of fear and agony painted across her face.

"On your next contraction, I want you to give a big push okay?" said the midwife.

Sherlock watched as they talked her though it. The room dipping into quiet as she pushed and rising into chaos as she gasped for breath and cried in pain. He had spent his whole life in control; solving problems, finding answers. But this, he couldn't control. There was no solution he could give, no way of fixing it. All he could do was stand by and watch, like a spectator, as Margaux pushed over and over and over.

"I can't do it anymore!" Margaux shouted, throwing her head back in exhaustion.

"Why don't we try a different position," said the midwife calmly.

They helped her up onto her knees, turning her around so she could lean her elbows on the headboard. Sherlock walked around the back of the bed, bringing them face to face. He brushed the loose strands of hair out of her face and took her hands.

"You can do this," he said quietly, falling into the part of him that was only for her.

She began to groan as another contraction ripped through her, looking up at him with teary eyes. "This is your fault. Twice you've done this to me and never again."

He laughed, his eyes creasing in the corners. "That's fine," he said.

"Push, Margaux!" the midwife shouted.

She clamped her eyes shut, gritting her teeth as she pushed. Sherlock winced as she squeezed his hands, feeling his bones crushing in her grasp.

"Keep going!"

She continued to push until there was nothing left. She dropped her head and caught her breath before letting out a whimper. "I'm sorry," she cried softly. "Your hands..."

"It's fine." He shook his head. "Squeeze as hard as you need to."

She took a deep breath and continued pushing. Sherlock watched her in awe, ignoring the throbbing in his hands.

Margaux let out a scream.

The midwife peered over excitedly. "Baby's head is coming, would dad like to come and see?"

"Absolutely not," Sherlock replied bluntly.

Margaux reached out and clutched at his shirt, pulling him closer as she cried out in pain.

"That's it!" the midwife continued. "Keep going, keep going, keep going."

Suddenly, he felt her grip on him loosen. She dropped her head and began to pant. It was as if the room became completely silent and Sherlock couldn't hear anything except the blood pumping in his ears. He looked down at her with wide eyes, until a sound broke through the quiet. A high pitched gargling cry.

He watched as if everything was moving in slow-motion - the midwife passing the baby between Margaux's legs and tucking her beneath her T-shirt, Margaux cradling the baby against her chest as she stayed kneeling on the bed, looking up at Sherlock with an exhausted, relieved, awestruck expression. He felt her curve a hand around the back of his neck. She was shaking, looking back and forth between him and the baby as if she couldn't believe it was real. He leaned in, looking down into her T-shirt and saw his daughters face for the first time. Scrunched up, swollen. He took Margaux's face in his hand and kissed her.

"I love you," she whispered with shaking breath.

"I love you," he replied.

"This doesn't feel real."

A midwife helped Margaux lie down on her back before turning to Sherlock. "Would you like to cut the cord?"

He looked reluctant, yet agreed when Margaux gave a gentle nod. Then he watched as they took the baby, holding her up so he could see her properly for the first time. She was tiny, round and puffy with a tuft of dark hair.

"Let's see how much this little one weighs..."

"Seven pounds," Sherlock responded.

They put her on the scales before turning and raising an eyebrow. "Correct. What is that? Like a party trick?"

He shrugged, too awestruck to think of a comeback. Instead he stood there, never letting his daughter out of his sight.

*

John and Mr and Mrs Holmes sat waiting outside the labour ward. They were chatting quietly, their hands wrapped around styrofoam cups of coffee. Mrs Holmes noticed him first, her crystal blue eyes glittering as he stepped through the double doors. She stood up, waiting.

"Is she here?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

She threw her arms around him, holding him tight as his arms remained by his sides. Mr Holmes joined the hug, patting his son firmly on the back. They released him, moving back as John stepped forward. They looked at each other for a moment before John began to smile.

"I recognise that look," he said. "That's the look of a man who just realised his wife is the strongest woman he's ever met."

"I can't believe I left her to do that alone the first time," Sherlock replied.

"You're here now."

John pat him on the back, assessing him for a moment before pulling him into a hug.

"Am I glowing?" Sherlock asked as they hugged.

John's face twisted in confusion. "What?"

"When you came out to tell us Rosie was here, you had a... glow."

John smiled and pulled back, inspecting him for a moment. "Yeah I can see a glow."

*

London glittered beneath the night sky. Peaceful and distant from the hospital window. Margaux lay in bed with the baby in her arms, watching Sherlock as he gazed out at the view. He stood with his hands behind his back and turned to look at her.

"I'm guessing this private room is courtesy of Mycroft Holmes?" she asked, her voice was nothing more than a croak.

"I could go and tell them you'd rather stay on the ward," he replied as he walked over to the bed. "Then of course I'd have to go home..."

she giggled and shuffled over, gesturing for him to sit beside her. He sat down with his back up against the headboard. He put his arm around her as she rested her head on his chest, the baby nestled in her arms.

"How long does it take for it to sink in?" he asked.

"When she starts screaming, that'll do it."

He stroked his finger across the baby's cheek, kissed Margaux on the side of the head and let his head fall back, letting sleep steal him away.

...

He woke in the pitch black room to the sound of the baby fussing. He looked down to see Margaux fast asleep and shifted gently, careful not to wake her. He took the baby gently, holding her in his hands like a precious ornament before cradling her close to his chest. He stood up and began rocking her gently, shushing softly as he walked around the room.

"Hello Flora," he whispered. "I'm your daddy."

The baby continued to fuss, wriggling in his arms.

"What's the matter? What is it?" he picked up a bottle from the bedside table, looking at it for a moment before struggling to open it with one hand. "I know," he continued to whisper as she began to make noises. "I've never done this before. Sorry."

He sat down in an armchair beside the bed and lifted the bottle to her mouth, waiting anxiously for her to take it. He smiled gently as she began to suckle.

"Well look at that, we're doing it."

She drank for a while before falling back to sleep. He wiped her mouth with his thumb and lifted her up, laying her on his chest stroking the back of her head.

He had asked how long it would take for it to sink in. But as he sat in the room, his wife sleeping in bed, his daughter sleeping on his chest, he realised that none of it had ever truly sank in. Sherlock Holmes, the high-functioning sociopath who thought emotion was futile, had fallen in love and become a father, a husband, a friend. He had convinced himself for so long that he worked best alone, yet suddenly, he felt like he was exactly where he was always meant to be.


	20. After the Storm

Margaux shuffled down the hospital corridor with her hair tied into a messy bun and her dry lips coated in thick balm. She smiled, thanking one of the midwives who waved at her as she passed. Sherlock walked in front carrying their newborn daughter in her car seat. He glanced behind, noticing how far ahead he had walked, and stopped for her to catch up.

They walked across the car park. Margaux tilted her head back, relishing in the warm spring sun as she waited for Sherlock to unlock the car.

"Do you want me to do it?" she asked as she watched him struggling to strap in the car seat.

"No, I can do it," he said. "I just don't understand why they have to make it so complicated."

"Hm, maybe to ensure the baby's safety?" she replied sarcastically.

He let out a grunt in frustration before the seatbelt finally clicked in place. He closed the door and stood up straight, blowing the hair out of his face and placing his hands on his hips.

"Right," he breathed, "Shall we?"

She climbed in carefully, wincing in pain as she sat down and relaxed slowly into the seat. Sherlock climbed into the driver's side and pulled the door shut with a slam. She closed her eyes and sucked the air in through her teeth.

"Sorry," he said.

"Just... please drive slowly."

He pulled out of the car park onto the main road, breaking suddenly as they approached a line of traffic.

The sudden stop sent them jerking forward. Margaux placed both hands on the dashboard. "Jesus, Sherlock!"

"Would you have preferred I crashed?"

"I'd prefer for you to drive in a way that doesn't make me feel like my stitches are going to explode."

He navigated the traffic slowly after that, turning smoothly around corners and avoiding speed bumps. He reached over and held her hand as she continued to wince and swear under her breath. He thought he had prepared for everything, but seeing his wife in pain was something he never got used to.

They pulled into the drive. Margaux looked out the window at the cars parked outside the house.

"Are people here?" she asked.

"It's looks that way."

He helped her out of the car and unclipped the baby's seat before holding out his arm for her to link with him. When they stepped through the door, the murmuring of conversation faded to silence.

Margaux stepped into the living room first, gasping when she saw the group of excited faces waiting for her.

"Oh... my god. Hello," she laughed as everyone began to greet her.

"How are you?" asked Mrs Hudson as she ushered her to sit down.

"You look healthy," Molly added as she stood nearby with John and Rose.

"I'm... alright," she replied, holding her breath as she sat down.

She felt dirty, tired and sore. Placing a hand instinctively on her still-round stomach as it protruded from beneath a baggy old T-shirt.

Sherlock stepped into the room, the handle of the car seat hooked in the fold of his elbow. He looked around with an emotionless expression, one that Margaux was somehow able to recognise as surprise.

He placed the car seat down gently, watching as Mrs Holmes hurried over and scooped the baby into a loving cuddle.

"My god, she's tiny," said John.

"She didn't _feel_ tiny," said Margaux bluntly.

Everyone laughed as they began to coo, taking turns to hold her.

Sherlock crouched down to hug Vaughan. "Was uncle Mycroft good to you?"

He nodded. "We ordered a pizza and watched a scary film."

Sherlock looked up at his brother with a raised eyebrow. Mycroft shrugged, keeping his fists wrapped firmly around the handle of his umbrella.

"Mycroft, do you want a hold?" asked Mrs Hudson as she stepped towards him.

He shook his head, a look of disgust on his face.

"Yeah go on, Mycroft, hold the baby," Margaux teased.

He glared at her. "Really, I'd rather not. Babies and I don't see eye to eye."

"Can I hold her?" asked Vaughan.

"Of course," said Margaux. She struggled to her feet and stepped aside. "Sit here."

He jumped up on the couch, waiting patiently as they propped his arm up with a cushion and lay a blanket across his lap. Mrs Hudson lay the baby gently in his arms, stepping back with a smile as she watched him looking down at his new sister - holding her with such care.

"So what's the official name?" asked Molly.

Margaux cleared her throat. "It's Mary Flora..." she paused, glancing across to Sherlock. " _Sherlock_ Holmes."

He gave a smug grin

"You are joking," John laughed.

"I wish," she replied.

"How the hell did he get you to agree to that?"

"I was on strong painkillers and he's very persuasive."

"Told you it was a girl's name," said Sherlock proudly.

Six Months Later

A chill in the breeze blew dying leaves from their branches, sending them fluttering through the air like rust-coloured butterflies. Tyres on the busy London roads ground them into the wet tarmac, while pedestrians crunched over them as they rushed along the pavement.

Sherlock and John walked down a high street lined with shops. John looked up at the sky and held out his hand, feeling for the first spots of rain that were threatening to break from the heavy clouds. He zipped up his jacket and quickened his pace to keep up.

"So this guy we're going to see; you said he owes you a favour..." he said.

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he continued to walk, always a few steps in front.

"And it's great and all," John continued. "But I'm just wondering what exactly you did for him to owe you one."

He glared ahead as his friend kept walking, the bottom of his long dark coat wafting in the wind.

"Sherlock... hello?"

Sherlock stopped walking and turned to face him. "Hm?"

Beneath the coat, his daughter was strapped to his chest. Her fluffy dark hair just visible over the top of the carrier, her little legs hanging down from either side.

"I was talking to you," John replied.

"I know you were. I wasn't listening."

"I just wanted to know a bit more about this guy."

"Oh." He shrugged and began to walk again. "He did some time in prison, so he should be able to give us some information about our suspect."

"You're bringing your baby daughter along to visit an ex con?"

"I got him exonerated, hence the 'favour'."

"Ah."

"It helps to pay attention, John."

Rain began to fall. John looked around the high street as hoods rose and umbrellas began to bloom. He watched as Sherlock wrapped his coat around Flora to shield her from the downpour and the pair quickened their pace until they reached the doorstep of a flat.

*

Margaux sat at the kitchen table in Mr and Mrs Holmes' cottage. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug of tea in front of her and glanced out the window as the rain began to patter against the glass.

Mrs Holmes walked to the back door and opened it. "Come on, all of you inside or you'll catch a cold!"

She stepped aside to let Mr Holmes into the house, followed quickly by Vaughan and Rosie giggling as their hair dripped with rain.

"Wipe your feet," said Mrs Holmes as she closed the door.

"We were beating Grandad at football." Vaughan grinned.

Mr Holmes laughed as he sat at the table. "They ganged up on me."

"Holmes and Watson - it's a deadly combo," said Margaux.

The children ran off into the living room, shedding their wet coats and shoes as they went.

"It's nice that they have each other," said Mrs Holmes. "It's nice too, for little Rosie to have you Margaux, what with Mary being gone."

"I try my best to be there for her. It's funny though, she's _so_ like Mary without even realising it."

"We all take after our parents no matter what. They're in our blood," said Mr Holmes, taking a sip of tea.

Mrs Holmes hit her husband on the arm and shook her head. "See, no tact. That's where Sherlock and Mycroft get _that_ from."

"What? What did I say?" He furrowed his brow before looking over at Margaux. "Oh right, I'm sorry I didn't mean to-"

"Don't worry, unfortunately it's true."

"Are you a lot like your mother?" Mrs Holmes sat across the table with her eyes fixed, as if she had been dying to ask the question for years and was finally getting the chance.

"I hope not." She pondered for a moment. "I know I look like her. I'm hoping that's about where the resemblance ends."

"Aren't you at all curious?"

"Sometimes. But every memory I have of her is negative - I have to remind myself of that. There's a part of me that always worried, with the job I do, that one day I'd walk into a crime scene and she'd be the victim. Or worse, the culprit." She looked up from her tea with a laugh, noticing their straight faces. "But I doubt it," she cleared her throat, silently chastising herself for the morbid joke. "My mother was a narcissist. The fact that I've been in the papers and she's never tried to sell a story on me makes me think she's probably dead."

"Well," said Mr Holmes. "If she ever did anything right, it was having you."

Margaux smiled, a slight blush warming her cheeks. He was so like Sherlock, from his tall frame to his charming smile. But he was softer than his son; calm and kind. She wondered if he was always that way or if, like Sherlock, love had mellowed him.

"Yes," Mrs Holmes added. "We got a lovely daughter-in-law out of it and two beautiful grandchildren. Now all we need is for Mikey to find someone and I can die happy."

Margaux laughed. "Well stranger things have happened. After all, Sherlock married me."

"Mm, Sherlock was always the more emotional one. Mycroft, he's logical. Sometimes to a fault."

"Maybe one day someone will catch his eye. Melt his heart."

They continued to discuss Mycroft's love life. Margaux wondered if she should warn him of his mother's plans to find him a partner but, in the end, she decided it would be a lot more fun to watch him squirm.

*

Molly stood in the lab of St Bart's, her round eyes shielded beneath a pair of thick plastic goggles. She lifted a test tube carefully from its holder and carried it to a machine, almost dropping it when she heard the door swing open behind her.

Sherlock walked over in long, fluid strides as John followed behind carrying the baby in his arms. She was fidgeting. Wide awake and looking around curiously at their clinical, bright surroundings. She looked over at Molly, pointing and babbling beneath the dummy in her mouth.

"Ah Molly," said Sherlock. "Good, you're here. I was hoping to borrow the lab for an hour."

She took off her gloves and slipped her goggles onto her head. Cooing as she approached John and the baby.

"Hello Flora," she sang before turning around. "I've told you before this isn't the best place for a baby, Sherlock."

"She's fine, John can watch her while I work."

"Mm," said John. "Apparently I've become a travelling nanny."

"Why is she even with you?" she asked.

"I'm being a good husband," Sherlock replied as he pulled up a chair in front of the microscope. "Told Margaux I'd give her a break."

"She doesn't know you're working a case, does she..."

"Of course not."

The baby let out a squeal and spat out her dummy. Sherlock's arm snapped out and caught it, his eyes never leaving the lens of the microscope.

"Show off," John muttered.

Molly glanced up at the clock on the wall and sighed. "Well I suppose you can stay if you really need to..."

"Where is he taking you? Somewhere nice?" asked Sherlock.

"W-what?"

"Your husband. Clearly you have a lunch date - is it somewhere nice?"

"What makes you... think-"

"Lipstick. Hair. New blouse. And you keep checking the clock every few minutes."

"Oh." She could feel herself blushing. She smoothed her hand awkwardly over her hair. "Well, yes, he should be here any second. We've both been busy with work so this is the first chance we've had to spend some time together."

Sherlock glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She was nervous, focusing her attention on the baby.

There was a tap on the open door. They looked up to see Arthur standing in the doorway. He gave an uncomfortable wave as he noticed the two men with his wife.

He cleared his throat and forced a smile. "Ready to go?"

Molly slipped off her lab coat and nodded. He placed a hand on her back as they made their way out.

"Arthur." Sherlock's voice was low and commanding. "A word?"

Arthur turned to Molly and patted her on the arm. "You go, I'll just be a second."

He walked tentatively into the lab, raising an eyebrow as John began to grin triumphantly.

"She's asleep," he whispered. "I got her to bloody sleep."

"Arthur..." Sherlock began, ignoring his friend's quiet celebration. "I'm aware we haven't spoken since the _incident_ in your home earlier this year."

"You mean when you attacked me? Accused me of murder?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Molly Hooper is my friend. I don't intend for that to change. And since she is now Molly Westbrook - your wife - it's clear we'll be seeing a lot of each other." He paused. "It's important that you know I have no intent to reveal your past identity to Molly. As long as you treat her well, your secret is safe with me."

Arthur blinked rapidly, taking a deep, relieved breath. "Thank you," he said quietly, before instinctively reaching out for a handshake.

Sherlock looked down at his outstretched arm for a moment before taking his hand and shaking it firmly.

"Oh, and just so you know, she's going to tell you she wants to start trying for a baby," he said plainly.

Arthur's eyes widened. "What?"

"Just thought I'd warn you so you're not completely caught off guard over your lunch."

"Wh- I... Did she tell you that?"

"She didn't have to, it's obvious."

Arthur paced the floor for a moment before looking down at Flora as she slept in John's arms. He reached out, stroking her cheek gently with his finger. "Well I suppose I could get used to the idea..."

"If you wake my daughter, I'll break your arm." said Sherlock bluntly.

*

Doyle Street was laden with fallen leaves, blanketed in browns, golds and oranges. Trees lined the pavements either side of the road, bending and swaying into an arch that encased the road like a tunnel.

The car pulled slowly onto the driveway, splashing through puddles and rolling to a stop beside the house. As Margaux pulled her keys from the ignition, the children had already broken free from their carseats and opened their doors. She climbed out, following them as they ran up to the front door.

"Daddy's home," said Vaughan as he stood on the doorstep.

"Is he?" asked Margaux as she locked the car behind her. "How do you know?"

He pointed down at the off-centre doormat. "Someone's wiped their feet. And there's no post sticking out of the letterbox. Which means someone's gone inside and taken it."

"And we can hear them talking inside," Rosie added innocently.

"Rosie!" Vaughan whined, before folding his arms and beginning to sulk.

Margaux laughed, ruffling her hand through his shaggy dark curls. "It's okay, love. Those were very good deductions."

She unlocked the door and let them inside, taking off her coat and hanging it beside the door. She followed the voices into the living room where John sat on the couch, Sherlock paced the floor and Flora sat contently in her bouncer.

"Hello baby!" She smiled as she approached her, taking her out and sitting her on her hip.

"Hi," Sherlock replied.

John stifled a laugh and glanced up at him. "Don't think she was talking to you."

"Hm?" He turned around to see Margaux laying kisses on Flora's cheeks. "Oh."

She laughed and walked up to him, placing a hand on his cheek. " _Hi baby_ ," she repeated sarcastically.

"Hello," he replied.

She kissed him lightly on the lips before sitting down and bouncing the baby on her knee.

"So what have you been up to today?" asked Margaux.

"We, er, we went out..." said John.

"Where?"

"On a... bit of a walk around London." He glanced up at Sherlock who was glaring at him, silently warning him to stop talking. But he couldn't. "Then we stopped by Bart's to see Molly."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You went to see Molly? While she was working? Why would y-" She stopped, her attention turning slowly to her husband. "Did you take a case today?"

"Perhaps one little tiny case may have come in this morning..." he replied.

She sighed. "Of course it did."

"Daddy!" Rosie shouted as she ran into the room. She jumped up on John, making him groan in pain as she accidentally kneed him. 

"Have you had a good day?" he asked.

She nodded. "We beat Vaughan's Grandad at football."

"Oh, wow! Well, what do you say to a walk through the cemetery to see mum? You can tell her all about it."

She smiled and jumped down off his knee.

Vaughan walked into the living room. Rosie rushed over, grabbing him by the sleeves of his jumper.

"Vee I'm going to see my mum."

He looked down at her and smiled.

When they stood beside each other, it was hard to tell if Vaughan was destined to be tall, or if the handful of years between them was still apparent. He had always been patient with her, protective, loyal. When the grown-ups watched the moments between them, it was easy to imagine a day when they would both be adults; Rosie still tugging on his sleeves, Vaughan still looking down and smiling.

The Watsons left, disappearing hand-in-hand down the street. Margaux waved one last time and closed the door, trapping in the heat that was escaping into the cold autumn air.

"So..." she began, returning into the living room. "A case?"

"What?" Sherlock replied as he picked up Flora. "We had fun, didn't we!"

"Why did the baby get to go on a case but I didn't?" asked Vaughan.

"You can come next time." He winked.

"Erm, no he can't!"

"Right, yes." He nodded, waiting until her back was turned before winking at his son again.

Margaux sat down on the couch, watching quietly as Sherlock swayed around the room with Flora in his arms. With every day that passed, she saw a change in him. He had learned quickly with his son; learned to be kind and nurturing, patient yet stern. But it had never been instinctive - there was a thought process, a conscious effort to be a good father. Yet since his daughter was born, he had begun to move with the intuition of a father; he held her with ease, understood her cries, made silly faces and cooed over her as she slept. He made time for Vaughan, joked with him, encouraged him.

Margaux knew there was a part of him reserved only for her. A place where he was soft, loving, romantic, vulnerable. But for his children, it wasn't just a part. For them, he gave every last piece of himself entirely.

*

Moonlight shone through the bedroom window, dancing over the planes of Sherlock's face. He sat quietly on the floor with his legs crossed, palms together, fingers pressed against his lips, watching through the wooden bars of the cot as his daughter slept. He observed with fascination as her little chest rose and fell, her mouth parted slightly, her long, dark eyelashes resting against her plump cheeks. She was his; the idea that he could have created something so perfect was a concept he didn't think he would ever grasp.

Margaux stepped into the room. She opened her mouth to speak but changed her mind. The silence was serene, she wanted to bask in it, let it envelop her like the moon on Sherlock's alabaster skin.

She sat down beside him, crossed her legs and rested her head on his shoulder.

"They can say what they like about us, but there's no denying we make beautiful kids," she whispered.

"Who's saying things about us?" he whispered back.

"It's a figure of speech." She paused. "Though in our case, people probably do talk about us."

She took his arm and draped it around her shoulders, leaning further into him. He kissed her on the side of the head.

"Have I told you I love you today?" he asked.

She thought for a moment. "Hm, actually no, I don't think you have."

He looked at his watch - it had gone midnight. He turned back to her. "That's the first time I've gone a whole day without saying it..."

She laughed quietly, placing a hand on his face. "I won't hold it against you." She rose to her knees and took his hand. "Come on, we should go to bed."

"I'll be through in a moment."

He felt her hand turn his face toward her. She leaned down and kissed him, wrapping her arms around the back of his neck.

"When I said we should go to bed, I didn't necessarily mean to _sleep_..."

He returned another kiss, closing his eyes as she melted into him.

"Mm," he said, his lips still pressed against hers. "That _is_ rather tempting."

"But..."

Flashing blue lights illuminated the room followed by the sound of cars pulling up outside the house. Margaux furrowed her brow, rising to her feet and walking over the window. She looked down as a car door opened and Greg Lestrade climbed out.

"What have you done now?" she asked as she felt Sherlock standing behind her.

"I haven't done anything," he replied. "But clearly someone else has."

"And here's me, thinking the wife, house and children had turned you into a normal person."

There was a knock at the front door. Sherlock rested his hands on Margaux's shoulders, giving them a gentle squeeze.

"My darling, I don't think I'll ever be normal."

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Authors Note:
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and supporting this series. Writing this story has been a dream and I've loved every second of interacting with you in the comments. I'd like to say this isn't the end of the Glass series, but as of right now, I can't say for certain whether it is or not! If you're wanting more, theres a book on my page titled 'Glass: Reader Requests', if you have any ideas, I'd love to bring them to life for you. 
> 
> Thank you all so much again!


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